


Skin of the Canvas

by sinsense



Category: Bandom, My Chemical Romance
Genre: Alternate Universe - Art School, Alternate Universe - College/University, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-06-17
Updated: 2013-09-29
Packaged: 2017-12-27 23:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 42,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/984945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinsense/pseuds/sinsense
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The typical nude model is someone like Phil. Phil is forty-nine and paunchy. He's starting to go gray at his temples and in his pubic hair; he likes to pose on a stool, curving his back and curling his fingers together between his knees. Phil is secretly awesome -- he likes the Misfits and builds model trains -- but he's not what Gerard would call prime ogling material. Neither are any of the other models who have posed for the life modeling or anatomy classes Gerard has taken. This semester, Anna was kind of cute, but she whined about the conditions the entire time she was there. In his four years of art school, anyway, Gerard has never once dealt with being attracted to the model. </p><p>But this guy is <em>hot</em>.</p><p>---</p><p>Or: Gerard goes to art school. Frank is a nude model.  Somehow their relationship gets off the ground, in spite of everything working against them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Gerard is in recovery in this story, but he deals with depression and anxiety. Message or comment if you'd like any additional warnings.
> 
> Betaed by algernon_mouse, bexless, and hetrez. Originally posted on [Livejournal](http://sinsense.livejournal.com/380550.html). Bonus content for this story -- two mixes and fanart -- is [here](http://sinsense.livejournal.com/380245.html).

"Can I quit school?"

Mikey is silent. Mikey is frequently silent, but this time it seems like he's waiting.

"It's just," Gerard continues, and rests his chin against his knee. "I feel like something ought to change." He's folded up on the kitchen floor, tucked in a space under the countertop that was probably supposed to become a cabinet. His toes look fishbelly-white against the linoleum. "I think my art is shit, maybe, like it's not really. Like there's no there, there." Gerard taps his feet while he waits for Mikey's answer. _All a-long the watch-tow-er, hear you sing a-round the watch, got-ta be-_

"No," Mikey says, finally.

"I can't quit school?"

"No."

"Okay," Gerard says. He laces the fingers of his left hand in between his left toes and tugs up, stretching his calf. "If you say so."

"Basement's nicer without you," Mikey says, like an explanation, and they giggle together, their voices rising and falling in tandem.

"You miss the drunk guy under the bed," Gerard says, and Mikey laughs, bright and loud. "Drooling on you and forgetting to go to school, c'mon."

"Yeah, sure," Mikey says, fondly.

"I don't really want to come home, anyway. You're right," Gerard says, because of course he is. He pulls his fingers out from between his toes and scratches the tops of his feet. "And. I don't know. I guess I'll figure out the art thing."

"If you do that, you get a prize," Mikey offers, startling another laugh out of Gerard.

Gerard had been feeling pretty low before he called Mikey; he'd been thinking about how far and how long it was to the nearest meeting, how much he hates going outside, how little he cares about his classes, how his sponsor's probably sick of hearing from him. Just hearing the soft noises of his brother shuffling around their room is enough, though, some days.

They sit in silence a little longer, Gerard tapping his toes and Mikey doing whatever it is that he does when Gerard's not there. "One day at a time," Mikey says, quiet and fast, like he knows what Gerard was thinking when he picked up the phone.

"Yeah," Gerard says simply. "Love you."

"Uh huh, you too," Mikey says, and then with his typical brusqueness, "Gotta go, 'bye."

"Bye," Gerard says, smiling, and Mikey hangs up. Gerard lets his head rest against the wall until the phone starts beeping dully in his ear. He has to get to his feet to hang it up, and once he's up, he might as well go to class.

\---

When he finally gets to school -- goddamn motherfucking A train, really -- Gerard can't find his ID.

Gerard fumbles his kit into the hand already holding his portfolio so he can dig frantically in his other coat pocket. He turns up cigarettes, his house keys, two Metro cards, a lighter, two dirty wads of gum eraser, and four pennies before he finally closes his hand around the ID. He yanks it out and shows it to the guard, smiling hugely so his face will match the picture.

The security guard doesn't smile back, but he nods and turns away from Gerard, back towards the front door. Gerard haphazardly stuffs all of the crap back into his pocket and bolts down the hall. His watch says it's five after four, which means it's something like thirteen to three, which means he's once again late for class.

Gerard gets to the studio, takes a moment to smooth down his hair, and hauls open the door. The music is already going on the old boom box by the door, and people are putting their things into place. The only easel left is right by the door, where the lighting is terrible. Gerard mentally shrugs and dumps his things on the bench in front of it. At least it's near Maja.

"Mr. Way," the professor says, right behind him. Gerard does _not_ jump.

"Professor Molko."

"So very wonderful to see you."

"Likewise." Gerard shoves up his sleeves and quickly gathers his hair into a messy ponytail. He flips open his kit, grabs the supplies he needs, and dumps them onto the ledge of his easel. Molko gives him a wan, thin smile, but he doesn't hover for too long. Gerard lets out his breath and wiggles his drawing pad out of his battered old portfolio.

When he turns to put the pad on his easel, Gerard gets his first good look at their new model. He sucks his breath right back in.

"Holy shit," he says, and coughs. Maja leans around the edge of her drawing board and quirks an eyebrow at him, grinning.

"Manners, Gerard," she says. He flaps his hand at her.

The typical nude model is someone like Phil. Phil is forty-nine and paunchy. He's starting to go gray at his temples and in his pubic hair; he likes to pose on a stool, curving his back and curling his fingers together between his knees. Phil is secretly awesome -- he likes the Misfits and builds model trains -- but he's not what Gerard would call prime ogling material. Neither are any of the other models who have posed for the life modeling or anatomy classes Gerard has taken. This semester, Anna was kind of cute, but she whined about the conditions the entire time she was there. In his four years of art school, anyway, Gerard has never once dealt with being attracted to the model.

But this guy is _hot_.

He's short, if Gerard's being honest. Maybe even ridiculously short, at least for a dude; he's definitely even shorter than Gerard. He's got this dark shock of hair, though, flopping in his eyes, and blond fuzz all around the back. He has pretty, long lashes, and pale smooth skin. His eyes are wide and brown, and his face seems to fall naturally into a mischievous expression. When Molko asks the guy if he's ready to go, the guy only giggles in response, and the sound is gleeful and cool all at once.

"Um," Gerard says. Maja points with her pencil and laughs. "Yeah."

"I have a screen set up for you to change behind," Molko says. The guy's reply is muffled by his shirt, which is already halfway over his head.

"--because whatever, y'know?" he finishes, emerging from his shirt, and drops it on the floor. "You're gonna see me naked anyway." The students all shift and murmur, glancing at one another; normally the model at least strips behind a screen. The guy pushes down his pink sweatpants, the elastic sliding over the curve of his ass, and kicks them off his feet.

Gerard squeaks very, very quietly. He wants to cover both his eyes and his crotch, but he doesn't want to be obvious; he ends up just making abortive gestures at both. The model is even hotter with his clothes off. He's turned away from Gerard, which means that Gerard's treated to a view of the muscular line of his back, the swell of flesh over his hips, his round, perfect ass, and the tattoos that patch his arms and back. There are a lot of tattoos for someone so young. Gerard really wants to lick the one on his neck. He could take the guy's chin in his hand, slide his teeth over the skin, and bite down over the blotch of ink.

"--three twenty minute poses," the professor says, continuing a sentence that Gerard was apparently too zoned out on sex to hear, "a break, and then one long session. Is that okay, Frank?"

"Sounds good," the model -- Frank -- says, and settles into his first pose. He turns his head to the side so that his neck is elongated and twisted, his face in profile to Gerard; he drops one hand to dangle by his side, and drapes the other one on the front of his thigh. Gerard thinks he's just going to stand in _contrapposto_ , but then Frank stretches his bent leg behind him, putting the top of his toes flat against the floor. The pose makes his gluteal muscles and the gastrocnemius in his calf stand out in high relief.

Frank is not just hot, then; he's good. Male nude models are rare. A young male nude model who can hold a decent pose is outrageous. Gerard glances over to Maja for confirmation of how insane it is, but she's already working, pencils stuck haphazardly in her hair and gum eraser clutched tightly in one fist. Gerard firmly restrains himself from saying or thinking anything further, and picks up his charcoal instead. He can do this. He's an artist, for fuck's sake.

And he does do it. By the time he begins the curves and folds of Frank's fingers curled next to his leg, Gerard has started seeing Frank as a problem of light and shadow. After that, drawing Frank becomes only the familiar experience of curving and shaping the charcoal, making small sketches in the corner for later ink work, ripping off sheets when the pose changes.

When the professor calls for the break, Gerard blinks and wipes at his eyes, getting them impossibly smudgy.

"One day you'll remember," Maja says, when she sees what he's done to his face. Gerard shrugs and offers her a cigarette. "Thanks."

The smokers all huddle outside, blinking and murmuring to each other about projects and final shows in between drags of their cigarettes. Frank comes out with them, taking out a pack of Camel Lights and bending his head to accept a light from Maja. He mutters his thanks and exhales a dramatic cloud of smoke.

Gerard keeps watching Frank out of the corner of his eye while he smokes his cigarette. The guy jitters like he's had six or seven shots of espresso in a row, giggling and chattering and sucking down two cigarettes in the span of time it takes Gerard to smoke one. It's hilarious that the guy's a model. If Gerard had met him outside of class, he wouldn't ever have guessed that he would be any good.

"How did you get into modeling?" Maja asks, like she's thinking the same thing.

"Easy money," Frank says, and giggles yet again. "But then I kept doing it through, like." He pauses and sucks on his cigarette, ash curling rapidly off the tip. "It's like, everyone draws a picture of me, and they're all me, y'know, but it's a different me in each one?" He pauses again, and Maja nods encouragingly. "That made no sense."

"No," Gerard says, "I get it. Like in _Fried Green Tomatoes_."

"What?" Maja says, and laughs. "You're doing it again. Explain yourself."

"It's a movie. Kathy Bates," he tells her, "She plays this Southern woman hitting menopause, and she goes with her friend to a consciousness raising group. It's in this room, with all these other ladies, right? And the leader of the group tells them to take out a hand mirror and stick it down to, y'know, to look at their vaginas. Kathy Bates totally punks out."

He gestures with his cigarette at Frank, who is grinning at him for some reason. Gerard continues, "And the group leader is like, 'look at your womanly essence,' or whatever, but it's about learning how to see yourself, I think? And recognizing all the parts of yourself, and loving what you see." Gerard pauses, takes a drag, and exhales, "So you're not Kathy Bates," to Frank.

"I can look at my vagina," Frank says. Gerard laughs, and Maja rolls her eyes. "And you're all my hand mirrors?"

"Yeah, exactly," Gerard says. He's not sure why he blushes, but he does.

"You're totally right," Frank says, "You're-- that's really sweet."

"Thanks," Gerard says, and ignores Maja when she elbows him in the side.

When they've all shuffled back inside and Frank's back on the platform, Professor Molko says, "So, something you can handle for an hour?"

"All right," Frank says. He tugs his sweatpants in front of him on the floor, then goes down on his knees. They thump against the platform, muffled slightly by the fabric. Frank shifts in place, then leans back slightly and lifts his chin. Gerard chokes.

"Charcoal dust," he manages, when Maja smirks at him. When he looks back at Frank, Gerard's taken by the sheer doubleness of him; he is both the gorgeous man kneeling, and a model for the way muscle and skin are layered over bone. "Hand mirror," Gerard murmurs. He focuses back on his paper, driving himself back down into the process of drawing.

When the hour is up, Molko switches off the music, and everyone pins a piece up on the wall for an impromptu critique. His own sketches, Gerard thinks, are actually pretty good. He doesn't think that very often; he knows he's decent, obviously, but it's usually hard for him to enjoy his own work. He stands back, tucking his hands in his back pockets, and tilts his head; he's supposed to be looking at everyone else's sketches, but he keeps coming back to his own. He thinks there's something to them, for once, something more than accuracy. Of course, it could just be the model.

The model in question is standing right next to him, fingers tucked in the waistband of his sweatpants. When Gerard glances over, he can see a tempting gap between the waistband and the skin of Frank's hip. A hip that Gerard has drawn, he reminds himself, because Frank is their model. The model, regardless of his tempting hips, is off-limits. Gerard puts his eyes back on the wall.

"Frank?" Molko asks. He's the only professor Gerard has had who asks the model to comment on the work. Normally Gerard sort of ignores what they think, but. Well. Frank is a special case.

"I like the detail here," Frank says, walking forward and tapping the shape of his hip on Gerard's drawing. Gerard's face goes hot and tight, and he looks down at round shape of his shoes against the linoleum flooring.

"The light really works," Frank says, "and it looks like skin. And you, you got my tattoos," he says, moving over and tapping on Maja's drawing. Maja does pretty abstract work; Frank's body is in her usual angular style, but she went into a lot of detail on his tattoos, catching how the designs are reconfigured by the tension in his muscles.

Frank stops, touches his lips, and tilts his head back, then presses his hand against the one on the far end, a kind of awkward execution of a pretty good idea. Tanisha beams at him, and Frank beams right back. "I really like this one the best," he says.

They all nod thoughtfully, and Molko says, "Let's hear my opinions, shall we?"

"He liked your details," Maja says afterwards, when they're back outside. She hoists her bag up higher on her shoulder and lights the cigarette Gerard gives her.

Professor Molko had liked Gerard's work, too; he'd made some encouraging noises about the use of line and tone, which for Molko was tantamount to a very noisy orgasm. Still, it would have been nice to have been Frank's favorite. Gerard gives Maja a half-smile. "He was pretty cute," he admits.

"Damn straight," she mutters around her cigarette.

"He was right about your tattoo work, though, it was really sharp."

"Thanks, beautiful," Maja says. She takes the cigarette out of her mouth and exhales a plume of smoke. "I'm going to go get some coffee with Gabe and Travis, are you coming?"

"I'm going to work on my sketches," Gerard says, and she gives him a lopsided grin before she veers off towards the coffee shop where she usually meets her friends.

Gerard's always surprised by Maja. They don't know each other very well, and they're always in competition, for awards and scholarships and shows, but she's been awesome to him. She told him once he was "the only fucker with talent around here, Christ," out of nowhere, and she's pretty amazing herself.

Gerard grabs coffee from the shitty place nearest to the studios. He drinks it standing by the window in his studio space. It's not actually his own studio space, since Gerard shares it with five other people, but today it's quiet enough that Gerard can fantasize that it really is his own. When he's done his coffee, Gerard settles down to take advantage of the quiet. He works on his class sketches for about two hours in all, smoothing lines and shaping shadow, fiddling with the curves of his Frank's body.

He does three other pieces in ink after that, slumped in the corner with his sketchbook on his knees, the class drawing of Frank on his knees pinned up on the wall next to him for reference. The drawings aren't anything he would show a professor -- too scribbly, too erotic, probably once again too much like a comic book -- but when Gerard's finished with them, he likes how they look.

When he stops, Gerard realizes abruptly that there's no light coming in the windows anymore. Worse, one of the people who share the studio with him came in at some point, and she's working on her final project. It's something that involves some sort of animal fat, completely derivative of Beuys and too smelly to ignore after he notices it. Gerard smiles at her when he leaves, then pretends to gag when he's safely out in the hall. No one sees him, but it's the thought that counts.

When he gets home, before he even brews a pot of coffee, Gerard unfolds his favorite of the sketches he did. He tacks it up next to one of the windows in his cluttered room, in the corner, where it's mostly hidden by the curtain. He doesn't know why there, exactly, except that it looks right in the room, Frank's upturned face and inked arms edging past the fabric, the smooth shapes of his legs and ass veiled in gauzy blue.

\---

Frank has two more sessions with them, and then he is replaced. Their professor likes to strike a balance in between letting his students get familiar with a model and over-familiar with them.

Gerard normally finds the model changes annoying. In this case, though, Gerard has to make an exception. He only talks to Frank once more, at the end of the third session, but that's enough to make him happy to see Frank go. Gerard can see himself developing a really devastating crush on Frank with only a tiny bit more exposure. Frank talks at the speed of light about Italian horror movies, and he explains to Gerard very earnestly that he ripped the pair of gray yoga pants -- honestly, _yoga pants_ \-- he's wearing that day because he was climbing a tree to rescue a kitten.

"To rescue a kitten!" Gerard yelps. Mikey just laughs and laughs. Gerard slumps against the kitchen cabinet, giggling and twirling his finger in the phone cord like a teenage girl. "He really did rescue it, too, I think. He went on and on about how he was planning to adopt it and train it to be a ninja, but then the owner found the signs he'd tacked up and he had to abandon his plans. And then he hugged the professor before he left." Mikey laughs harder. "Professor Molko! Who of course was all," Gerard shoves his voice into an approximation of Molko's nasally English accent, "'Why, thank you Frank, you've been _so_ kind."'

"Poor Molko," Mikey giggles.

"Please, he probably got a kick out of it."

"True." Something bangs in the background.

"What're you doing?" Gerard asks, only a little suspicious. Mikey finishes giggling, then tells him all about today's episode in his epic effort to successfully roast a peanut butter, banana, and brown sugar sandwich on the grill. Gerard listens, and tries not to miss home too bad.

\---

The new model for Life Drawing is named Shayesteh. She's a butch woman, with pointy eyebrows and muscular forearms, who welds for a living and teaches them how to swear in German. Gerard isn't attracted to her. It's definitely a relief.

Two weeks go by. Gerard does a good-enough panel for his senior show, smokes a carton of cigarettes, burns through the $25 coffee gift card Mikey sends him, talks to his sponsor five times, and does not drink.

Gerard only has three courses, plus his senior project, before he's finally allowed to graduate. Two of the courses are electives that are filled with lackadaisical seniors, and one is a basic requirement. He should have it comparatively easy. Molko's Advanced Life Drawing, though, is like six courses in one. Gerard can't keep track of all the shit they have to do for Molko's class, between the in-class work and the weekly sketch journal assignments and the bimonthly evaluations.

This would be why he forgot about their midterm until a week before it's due. "It's not even at the normal midterm time," he whines. "And I can't afford to hire someone."

"You can borrow Gabe," Maja suggests. Gerard waves her off.

"I should get my own model."

"Gabe's flexible." She pauses. Her cigarette jerks up when she takes a drag, and sags again when she exhales out of the other side of her mouth. Gerard wishes he were as cool as Maja. "I mean, he may not even ask for money. He has a thing going now," and she takes her hands out of her pockets to make a gesture that looks like a misshapen horseshoe crab. "It involves a lot of pro bono work." She laughs at Gerard's expression. "Okay, never mind."

"No, I appreciate it, I just--" Gerard rests his head against the outside of the building and takes a meditative drag. "I want to do something that's my own, you know."

"Yeah, I know," she says. She lets her cigarette drop out of her mouth, and then grinds it out under her heel. "Ready?"

"As I'll ever be," Gerard says glumly.

A drink would wash the sour taste out of his mouth. Two would numb the worry out of his mind. He's already fucked up school, what would a drink do? Nothing he hasn't already done. The smile he gives Maja when he holds open the door for the studio is peeling at the edges, but she seems to buy it. He keeps it on his face, frozen, until they're back to drawing again.

After class, Gerard fidgets by the doorway, waiting while Molko chats with Tanisha, then some kid Gerard still doesn't know. "Um," Gerard says, brilliantly, when Molko's halfway out the door. "Professor Molko?"

"Mr. Way." Molko peers around the door. "Come with me."

"Uh," Gerard says, and follows him as Molko winds around the hallways, "Can I ask you for a favor?"

"What's on your mind, Mr. Way?"

"I'm--" Gerard takes a deep breath, and plunges straight into it. "I've been working on our final project, and I'm. I'm having a lot of trouble finding a good model." He's thought all class, in between sketching a woodworker named Lloyd, and this is the best he can come up with. If Molko doesn't buy it, he's going to have to go to Craigslist. Gerard hates getting models from Craigslist. They're almost always creepy.

Molko shoulders open a door and reveals a room stuffed with canvases and books and -- huh -- a whole lot of mirrors. "I think," he says, and fourteen Molkos look thoughtful. "If you don't mind working with one of the models we had in class, I know some of them like to help out students."

"Oh, do you have Phil's number?" Gerard exclaims, and thinks happily about the possibility of Phil's big hairy belly in ink.

"Sure," the Molkos say. They all duck out of sight to rummage around on the floor. "I've got four or five names to give you, in case Phil is busy." They emerge again with wrinkled paper clutched in their hands and triumphant smirks. "Model trains are absorbing." The Molkos copy the numbers onto another wrinkled sheet of paper, lettering neatly and carefully, and then they all reach out at Gerard all at once. Gerard manages to restrain himself to a single terrified noise.

"Right," he says faintly, and very carefully takes the paper. "I'm sure you have work."

"Plenty," the Molkos say, scowling, and Gerard flees.

When he looks down at the piece of paper, he nearly chokes on his own spit. The list has four names: Phil, Roberta, Shayesteh, and Frank. Molko has written _will work for cheap_ next to Frank's number. Gerard sighs, rubbing the paper between his fingers.

He wants to call Frank first, of course. He shouldn't. He should call the others, and see if they're free. Gerard hasn't done anything productive with his art, lately, and he's probably not going to create anything radically new or exciting for his final project. He should leave cheap, beautiful Frank for someone who deserves him. If the others aren't free, though, maybe Gerard could call Frank then.

Gerard still really wants a drink. He wants an ice cold beer, in the bottle, preferably a light shitty one that tastes like foul lake water. Miller Lite, he thinks, he wants a Miller Lite.

He buys a cup of crappy coffee instead, and walks to the nearest meeting listed in the paper.

The speaker at the meeting is a thin, grubby man in a flannel shirt, named Fred. Fred lost his wife because he drank. Then he lost his job, and then nearly lost his house. He's still paying off loans, Fred says. He hasn't found a girlfriend, much less another wife. His new job is a pain in the ass, and he can't wait to quit it.

"But," Fred says, leaning forward on his elbows, "I haven't had a drink in four years. Is that enough?" Fred pauses, and he huffs out a breath. "Sure as shit it is. I'm still here. And I'm not hurting anyone, not even myself. Let me tell you, learning how not to hurt myself was hard as hell. I'd been doing it for years. I was good at it."

Everyone in the small audience laughs along with him; it's an easy, warm sound that slopes up and then down again.

"But I'm not doing it, not anymore," Fred continues, smiling wryly. "I recognize now that it was as easy as stopping, and the hard part-- I guess the hard part was learning that it was okay to stop." He leans back in his chair. Everyone shifts, nodding and murmuring, _yeah, mmhm_. The folding chairs squeak and whine in chorus.

The leader of the meeting is a woman with a round, soft face. Gerard doesn't recognize her, but he hardly ever goes to meetings by school. When she shoves up her shirt sleeves, there are bright pink scars latticed on the pale skin of her forearms. "Does anyone want to share?" she asks, and after a pause someone raises their hand.

Gerard hates the holy roller drunks in AA, the people who cling to Jesus instead of a bottle. He's never had much time for church, and when they told him he had to give his problem up to a higher power he almost quit coming. Still, there's something calming about the ritual of a meeting, in sitting next to his sweaty, cynical compatriots in recovery; it feels a lot like what he always thought church was supposed to be like.

Gerard drinks an entire pot's worth of watery coffee by himself, and has to leave to piss halfway through the meeting. He takes three Oreos with one of his post-bathroom cups of coffee; they turn out to be stale, but he doesn't feel like he can put them back, and he has to keep them wobbling on top of his knee until the end.

He doesn't speak up. He just sits and listens to everyone share their shitty experiences and their only slightly less shitty advice. Going to the meeting was still the right decision, though, even with caffeine shakes and the ache of his bladder. Gerard feels better than he did before he walked in the door.

When he leaves the meeting, the moon is out. Laughing voices spill out with the light from the doorway behind him. Gerard walks slowly to his bus stop and stands in the street, leaning against a light pole, looking up at the black and gray skyscrapers against the dark blue sky. There are a few windows lit up; ten floors up, a woman in a blue uniform dress is vacuuming a floor in slow, rhythmic movements. People walk behind him, murmuring to one another; cars cross paths in front of him, talking with their horns.

There's a section in _Living Sober_ about how alcoholics are perfectionists at heart. They set up unreachable standards for themselves, put the bar so high that no one could be expected to reach it, least of all a drunk. When they inevitably fail, it gives the alcoholic yet another excuse to drink. When Gerard read that, that was the moment when he realized that he had to stop beating himself up for everything he'd done wrong. _That is where we can start being good,_ Gerard remembers reading, _to ourselves._

When he says it to other people, _be good to yourself_ , they nod and smile like it's obvious. A couple of people have even laughed, that short, dismissive laugh of someone who knows better, who isn't taken in by such clichés.

When Gerard read it in the book, though, it had been a revelation. It gave him permission. In spite of all the bad things he'd done and thought and been, he had permission.

"Who's it gonna hurt?" he says out loud. The woman vacuums, the moon shines dully. Gerard slaps his hands against his thighs. "Okay," he says, "Okay."

\---

When he gets back to his apartment, he takes off his jacket and throws it at the closet, kicks off his shoes in the kitchen, and picks up the phone. He puts the paper on the counter, and very carefully dials Frank's number. It rings and rings. Gerard hunches forward, folding his arms awkwardly so he can tuck the hand not holding the phone into his armpit, and stares at his toes.

When the line clicks, he starts to say something, but it's just the machine. There's a guy bellowing "PUUUUUUUUUNK," lots of people giggling, and then someone in the background repeating "PUUUUUUUUUNK" in a tiny voice. Then it beeps, in the middle of Gerard's stupid high-pitched laugh.

Gerard chokes, and then scrambles to come up with a message. "Um. I'm pretty sure this is who I'm calling for, so. I mean. It's for Frank. This is Gerard? I mean, uh, Gerard Way, and I know Professor Molko. I mean, I'm one of his students. You modeled, um. For our class. Life Drawing. But this is not about that, I mean, it's about that, but. I have a project? Like, due next week, really soon."

Gerard takes a deep, fortifying breath, and finishes, "Could you model for me? For my project? That would be great. I can pay you, um. Not a lot, but I can. Okay. Bye." He's about to hang up the phone when he realizes he hasn't left his number, says _fuck_ a couple of times, and manages to spit it out into the phone.

He hangs up. Then he says, "Oh my God, oh my fucking _God_ ," and wishes that banging his head against the wall would magically undo the most awkward answering message of all time.

"Of all time," he tells his mom, who makes a sympathetic noise. Gerard puts his forehead in his hand and sighs. "It was horrible. Horrible."

"I'm sure you sounded fine," she says, soothingly.

"I said 'um' three thousand million times."

"That can be charming!" Gerard laughs, in spite of himself. "Well, it's not like weird ever offended anyone," she says, which is what she says every time he's embarrassing.

"That's true," he says, because. well, it sort of is. If you squint.

"I bet he's charmed," she repeats. "Do you want your brother, honey? I've got food to make."

"Sure," he says. His mom hollers up the stairs, and then Mikey says, "I got it," and his mom hangs up.

"I'm a moron," Gerard says.

"Yeah."

Gerard squawks, folding himself into the nook again. "Don't agree!"

"Then why'd you say it?"

"Jackass," Gerard says, and Mikey grunts his agreement. "I called Frank to ask him to do the modeling for my final project? And I sounded really stupid. On his answering machine."

"So there's evidence."

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"Yeah."

Mikey's silent for a bit. Gerard presses the phone against his ear and listens to the faint sounds of Sonic Youth in the background; when Mikey finally speaks he jerks, surprised. "That sucks."

"Yeah," Gerard says, and rubs his face. "But whatever, I'll give him a day and then call someone else."

"No loss," Mikey says supportively, and then, "Oh, hey, _Thundercats_ is on."

"Oh shit!" Gerard doesn't have cable -- doesn't even have a television, actually -- but _Thundercats_ makes him wish he could afford it. "What's Lion-O doing?"

They watch two episodes of _Thundercats_ together, and then Mikey has to go. "Don't worry about Frank," he says, as his parting gift, "he's probably lame."

"Probably," Gerard says, "Love you."

"You too, 'bye."

Gerard struggles to his feet and puts the phone back on the cradle. He leaves his hand there, hesitating, then decides that he'll call his sponsor. When he picks up the phone, though, it beeps at him.

 _You have -- one -- new message. To li--_ Gerard stabs at the 1 button. _First new message:_

"--totally eat your face! And-- oh, hey, the beep. Hi there, Gerard Way, student in Professor Molko's Life Drawing class. Pleasure to hear from you. I am Frank Iero. I like long walks on the beach and modeling for midterm projects. Please return my phone call so that we can schedule a time." There's a scuffling sound, and then, "For the modeling, not the beach. The beach comes after the second date." More scuffling. "I'll be awake until two am. Precisely." The message clicks, and Gerard's chest collapses with a genuinely embarrassing squeaking noise.

His watch says it's two past eleven. Gerard has absolutely no reason to avoid returning Frank's call. None. He needs to start working on the project as soon as possible. Gerard stands there with his hand on the phone. He then -- very decisively, and with confident movements -- makes himself a packet of hot chocolate. He drinks it seated on the kitchen counter, hunched over to avoid the edge of the upper cabinets. He stares at the phone the entire time. It doesn't do anything interesting.

"Okay," he says, when he has completely finished his hot chocolate, washed and dried the mug, and eaten three slices of individually wrapped cheese. "Okay, he is lame. Mikey is right. Totally lame." He picks up the phone, scrabbles around for the sheet of paper, and punches in the number. "Lame, lame, lame, la--"

"Hello?"

"Hi! Hah, um. This is Gerard. Way."

"Howdy. This is Frank. Iero."

"Hey." Gerard rests his head against the cabinet and looks at the ceiling. The guy is making fun of him; this is already awfully familiar. "Um, so. Modeling."

"Yeah, oh," and there's the sound of something loudly hitting the ground. "Whoops. Yeah, when are you free? Because I have a lot of band practice this week. And modeling, y'know, all the time."

"You're in a band."

"Yeah?"

"No, it's just. That's cool." Of course Frank's in a fucking band. "I guess I'm free on Tuesdays, most of the day. Although I would kind of want you for two days, I think, just for the number of pieces I'm supposed to do."

"Is one o'clock okay?"

"In the morning?" Gerard says stupidly, and when Frank laughs, "Right, sorry. Afternoon. One sec." He puts the phone down on the kitchen counter, slides into the bedroom to dig up a marker, and scrambles back. "Sorry!"

"No, it's fine," Frank says, "I was getting funky."

"Okay," Gerard says, "Tuesday at one pm, with the funkmaster," he recites, writing it down on his forearm.

"Are we -- where do you want to do it?"

Gerard blinks, then realizes what Frank is talking about. "Oh, uh. Here's the thing. There's a couple of people in my studio, so they could randomly come in, since I couldn't give them notice, and the one girl's doing something with animal fat, so--"

"So your house, then?"

"Yeah, my place." Gerard lets his head thump against the cabinets again and decides to state the obvious. "Sorry if that sounds sketchy."

"It's fine. I'll bring mace."

Gerard's not sure it's a joke, but he laughs anyway. "Do you want. Um. Do you want company on the subway?"

"Hey, no. Wow." Frank giggles. Gerard suspects that this might be God's way of telling him to strangle himself with the phone cord. "I've never had anyone offer that before," Frank says, "I'll be fine."

"Sometimes people get scared," Gerard says. Mikey had looked terrified, the last time he'd come to visit Gerard. "It can be a lot for some people, you know, you shouldn't, like--"

"No," Frank says, and he's just earnest enough that Gerard shuts up. "No, I get it. But I'm good, thanks. What's your address?"

"Sorry, um. Yeah." Gerard gets out the right number and street, then mumbles out a goodbye as soon as he can. Frank says bye brightly and hangs up.

"Lame," Gerard says again. He's definitely not referring to Frank.


	2. Chapter 2

Gerard wakes up the next morning and stretches luxuriously. Quitting drinking made him into something of an insomniac -- "lack of sleep never killed anyone," Brian told him gruffly, over and over again -- but when Gerard gets the occasional full night it feels better than any sleep he can remember. He lights a cigarette while he's still in bed, bracing his arms on his knees.

His clock says five after one, which means that it's four 'til. That can't be right. He glances down at his watch. Fourteen past two. It's definitely four 'til one, then. He blinks for a second longer at his watch.

"Fuck," he says, scrambling up out of bed. "Fuck," he tells yesterday's jeans, as he yanks them on. "Fuck," he mumbles against the fabric of yesterday's t-shirt. "Fuck fuck fuck motherfucking fuck," he tells his dick, thinking of naked grandmothers and that octopus porn Mikey sent him a month ago to get his morning wood down so he can piss. It takes a critical, absolutely necessary minute to do so, and there's no time to brush his teeth, fuck washing his hands, never mind his hair.

"Fuck," he says to the bedroom, and really means it. The place is a mess. He kicks as much of it as he can under the sofa, stacks all the dirty plates he finds into a teetering pile, dumps them in the sink, and hides the comic books scattered on the floor under his mattress.

When the buzzer goes off, he's trying to straighten out the bedclothes. "Fuck," he says one last time, and gives up on the sheets. "Hi?" he says into the speaker, then remembers to press the button to talk. "Hi?"

"It's Frank."

"Okay, um. Come up," Gerard says. He presses the button to open the front door, for long enough that he's sure Frank will get in. "Fuck," he says, one more time to get it out of his system. He props open the door with a battered copy of _Thus Spake Zarathustra_ so Frank can let himself in, and turns to head into the kitchen.

He's just gotten the coffee out when he hears "Hey, holy shit," from the hallway. "Your apartment building is fucking ancient," Frank says, and Gerard makes some sort of noise, halfway between an _um_ and a _hi_. Frank picks up the Nietzsche, bumps the door shut with his hip, snaps the lock into place, and zips past the doorway of the kitchen, out of sight. "Whoa, cool!"

"Hello," Gerard gets out. "What?" He deserts the bag of coffee on the counter and follows Frank into the other room. Frank has apparently decided to access Gerard's stacks of old canvases by bending himself over the arm of the sofa. His ass is up in the air. Gerard looks out the window. "What are you doing?"

"Are these yours?"

"Yes."

"These are pretty good." There's the sound of canvases banging into one another. Gerard glances over and gets an eyeful of Frank's upturned ass, his pink belt, the white elastic of his boxer briefs. Gerard yanks his eyes back to the window.

"Don't look," he says feebly.

"No, seriously, these aren't bad." The couch springs squeak when Frank collapses back on the cushions, and Gerard looks back over at him. He's rumpled and red-faced and grinning.

"They're from a while ago," Gerard says, "I don't do that style anymore. I mean, draw in that style. Whatever."

"That's dumb," Frank says comfortably. Gerard meets his eyes by accident, and Frank smiles. Gerard can feel his face flush.

"So," Gerard says, unsure of himself.

"So," Frank responds, after a beat. "Let's get our art on."

Gerard breaks into giggles. Frank grins even bigger. "Okay," Gerard says, "It's messy in here, but I'm gonna, y'know."

"It's fine," Frank says. He sits up and looks around the room, apparently taking it all in for the first time since he bustled in here. "Hey, do you have a roommate?"

"Um, no."

"That's awesome. Man, I live with, like, sixteen people. How do you afford that?"

"My mom helps," Gerard says sheepishly, and heads for the kitchen so he can roll his eyes at himself in private. "And, y'know. It's Harlem."

"Still," Frank says, "I've heard rent's been rising up this way." He appears in the doorway of the kitchen, his hands tucked into his back pockets, his eyebrows raised significantly at Gerard. Gerard raises his eyebrows back and gestures at him with the carafe from his coffee maker. Frank nods. "If you're making a pot. Hey, can I smoke in here?"

"Sure," Gerard says, and reaches over to yank up the sill. He turns on the tap too hard and jerks back from the spray of water, then nearly cracks the carafe open on a dirty dish when he puts it back under the spout.

He could blame it on the rush of adrenaline from waking up late, but his awkwardness is probably just having someone here, in his apartment. Gerard doesn't precisely hate people, though sometimes it can come off that way. He just doesn't feel settled around strangers. Sometimes he even feels off-kilter around his brother, for fuck's sake. Gerard pours water from the carafe into the machine. He puts in a filter and dumps a couple of spoonfuls of grounds in the basket, then puts the basket in its place in the machine. The routine is calming. "Ooh," Frank says, and Gerard looks over his shoulder. "Tang!"

"You like Tang?"

Frank is standing just inside the kitchen now, in front of Gerard's shelves. He makes a great picture, the back of his head with smoke curling up from it towards the ceiling. "I fucking love Tang," Frank mutters.

"You're not getting any. I've already made you coffee," Gerard says firmly. The coffee maker gurgles its agreement.

"Jerk," Frank says, his voice light. Gerard has to reach around him to get the mugs, and they give each other small smiles, Frank's lopsided around his cigarette. It's strange to have to maneuver around the space Frank takes up, shifting around the presence of another person. Gerard rocks back and forth on his feet, his hands still on the mugs, staring at the coffee drip.

"I'm going to, y'know, set up the room," he says, finally, and Frank nods.

Gerard only has one space heater, but it's a decent one, at least. He drags it out and switches it on, then goes to crank the heat up. The bill will be a bitch to pay later, but he'll deal. He's scheduled for more hours at the art store this month, anyway.

"Oh shit, pocky!" Frank pops his head out. "Can we have some?"

"Sure," Gerard says. "Eat them over a plate, though, I just got rid of the roaches." He squats down to paw at the blankets on his bed, searching for his cigarettes. He's pretty sure he left them there this morning. Maybe.

"My ex-girlfriend loves this stuff," Frank says, back in the kitchen. Gerard's hands still on the blankets, then jerk back to life. He finds the pack, the lighter. He shakes a cigarette out, lights it, inhales.

"My mom loves them, too," Gerard says. His voice is surprisingly even. Frank comes out with pocky sticking out of his mouth like fangs, giggling and holding a plate under his chin. Gerard laughs, he can't help but laugh. "Just let me get some coffee," he tells Frank, "And then we can do this."

"Okay," Frank says, and starts munching on his fangs.

Gerard burns his finger on the pot when he grabs it the wrong way. He curses, maybe a little louder than he needs to, and his eyes water.

"You okay?" Frank says, loud, like Gerard's in another apartment and not another room.

"Yeah, fine," Gerard says, because he is. It's only a minor burn. He sticks it under the tap and turns on the cold water. When his finger's numbed, he turns it off again and shakes his hand. Frank's standing in the doorway, looking concerned. Gerard's eyes are still smarting. "Just a burn."

"Let me see," Frank says. He comes into the room, and when Gerard holds his hand out he takes it and inspects it. Gerard focuses on not twitching, but when Frank presses a closed-mouth kiss against the red spot, he can't help but jerk away. "All better," Frank says, and quirks a smile.

"Thanks," Gerard says. "Um."

"Art?"

"Okay, yeah," Gerard says. He stops to pour coffee into the two mugs, and hands one to Frank. "I was thinking, for the first piece," he says, edging past Frank into the bedroom. "I'd like you to do something seated. I mean, I'm going to have you stand for one, if that's all right. This should be pretty easy, one seated, one laying down, one maybe standing--" Gerard turns around and coughs into his coffee, splattering some on his wrist.

"Sounds good," Frank says. "Where can I put my clothes?" He is completely, totally naked. Gerard jerks his eyes up and stares very hard at Frank's hairline. He wasn't ready for naked. This is just unfair. Girlfriend. Frank had a girlfriend. Gerard looks away.

"Just. On the couch is fine. Wherever."

"And this is the chair?" Frank says. There's the sound of the folding chair on the floor, and the clunk of his coffee mug on the floor. Gerard nods, not trusting himself to look over just yet. "Okay, sounds good." Frank puts his folded clothes on the couch and then flops down, just as Gerard looks over. Gerard yanks his eyes back to the window again, and takes an almost painful slurp of his coffee.

"All right," Gerard says, as much to himself as to Frank, "let's do this." He puts his coffee down next to his supplies and picks up a couple of pencils. He puts them on the shelf of the easel, huffs out a breath, and finally looks back at Frank. "Ready?"

"Sure," Frank says, dropping into a pose, tilting his chin into the light, "whenever you want."

Frank is still a wonderful model. If Gerard weren't mooning like a teenager over how hot Frank is -- how _straight_ he is -- he would be mooning over how still Frank holds himself, how the light seems to slide smoothly over his skin.

Gerard rented this apartment for its light. It has westward-facing windows that look out over an empty lot, and the sun pours through the warped glass in the afternoons. Frank is beautiful in the gold-orange light, or perhaps the light is beautiful on Frank; Gerard can remember catching his breath at the sight of the afternoon sun on the floorboards, but he can't remember that feeling being as intense as what he's feeling now. It's a slow, sticky sense of pleasure he's getting, just from looking at the curve of sunlight on Frank's bicep, from the way the light dips into his clavicle and clings there.

Gerard traces soft shapes onto the paper, getting the pose and the proportions. He moves on to shading, working graphite onto the paper to bring up the curves of muscle in Frank's thighs, then his calves. Gerard stops to do some small, detailed work on Frank's feet, getting the shadows around the toenails while they're there, and then moves up, to trace around Frank's hand where it rests on his right thigh. The pencil scratches softly against the paper. The curve of the knuckles appear.

When he traces the fine lines in the skin of Frank's hands, Gerard finds a problem with proportion, and he has to measure angles with his pencil and erase strips of skin and shadow for a couple of long minutes before he's satisfied that he's fixed it. A soft patch of crosshatching stands for the rough shadow between thumb and forefinger, two gentle lines and a smudge for the tendons in Frank's wrist.

Gerard stops, flexes his fingers. "Do you need a break?" he says, and lights a cigarette. Frank's eyes track Gerard's hands and his mouth as he inhales, but he doesn't move.

"No, I'm good for another twenty."

"Okay. You. You should tell me, when your time's up," Gerard says. "Do you want a cigarette? Are you cold?"

"No, I'm good," Frank says, and the corner of his mouth lifts in an expression Gerard wishes he could capture. "Your twenty minutes are running out, though."

"Right," Gerard says, jams the cigarette back in his mouth, and picks up his pencils.

There isn't enough time for the chair or the background, so Gerard moves from Frank's hand to his hip, to the soft slumped shape of his cock, to the rough tangle of marks of his pubic hair, up over his soft belly. Gerard dips into his navel, runs up his sternum to the spread of his shoulders, down the soft shapes of shadow that define his arms.

 _Later_ , he promises himself, thinking of all the ways he wants to draw Frank, _later_ , as he thinks of a man spreading his wings, _later_ , as he imagines Frank the superhero, naked, at rest. Gerard smudges around Frank's adam's apple with his thumb.

"Hold your face still," he says softly, and Frank makes a sound of assent. Gerard realizes he's finished his previous cigarette, and pauses briefly to light a new one. He has no idea where he put out the other one, until he starts to take a sip of his coffee and sees the butt floating there just in time. Oh well. One day he'll remember. Gerard goes back to his paper, putting the coffee back aside.

Frank doesn't actually have very prominent cheekbones -- he somehow gives the impression that he does -- but the shape of his mouth and chin are complicated. The ends of his mouth dent his skin, and Gerard spends a minute trying to get the roundness of those divots, the swell of flesh around lip and chin and teeth. Gerard races up around Frank's upper lip, over the small bulb at the end of his nose, up the smooth straight plane dividing his face, and then around the eyes. The eyes take longer, heavy drags of his kneaded eraser getting the light that lines them, the deep fold of his eyelids, the way that shade touches the spheres of his eyes.

"Okay," Gerard finally says, and lets himself put a comic book touch on the picture by just outlining Frank's hair in thin sweeping curlicues, shading where it falls into his face.

When he steps back, puts his pencil down -- when did he sharpen it? Apparently he had, there are pencil shavings floating in his coffee -- Frank is starting to emerge from the paper, in stark shadow and light. His eyes are blank, and without the irises they make his face seem like a mask. Gerard traces very light circles in, just to give it more of a sense of presence. His fingers itch to fix the proportion of the fingers, the kneecap, but he has to leave it for later. The pose is lost.

"Fuck," Frank says softly, and Gerard starts. Frank is standing right there. Gerard blinks, feeling slow and muddy-headed, still caught by the light that skips over Frank's shoulder and sparks in the ends of his hair. "That's really good," Frank murmurs. He touches the edge of the page. "I like my hair."

"I have to fill it in later," Gerard says, still staring at the side of Frank's head, his hair on his cheek. It looks like a doll's hair, up-close; Gerard can see every strand of it, the way they sit on each other.

"Don't," Frank says. He looks up at Gerard, catching his eyes and startling him, "This looks better."

"Huh," Gerard says brilliantly. "I'm sorry, I'm useless when I've been drawing."

"It's okay. I can tell you go pretty deep in your head."

"Really?" Gerard tries to cover up his slowness by tearing off the drawing from the pad. He drapes it face-down on the floor by the easel.

"Yeah, you get. I don't know, you're normally kind of random, the way you talk," Frank says, and laughs when Gerard fails to cover his wince. "Not in a bad way, just. Your sentences don't exactly connect very well."

"No," Gerard admits.

"But you kind of zoned in while you were drawing," Frank says, "People don't usually drop out of it the way you do. You focus."

"Huh," Gerard says again, and smacks his forehead. "I'm sorry, that's all you're getting, man."

"No, no, I get it," Frank laughs, "Don't worry, I'll stop talking. I need coffee and a cigarette." He takes the cigarette Gerard hands him with a smile and walks out of the room, into the kitchen. He's still naked. Gerard drops onto his couch and puts his head in his hands, shakes it a few times to try and get it to clear. "Can I make coffee?" Frank asks, and Gerard mumbles something that sounds like _yeah._

When he walks into the kitchen, Frank really is making coffee. A beautiful naked man is making coffee in Gerard's kitchen. Gerard files that image away for later and forces himself to act something like a professional, taking a seat and crossing his legs. He lights himself a cigarette, and his hand is not shaking. He counts it as a victory.

"So," Frank says, as Gerard blurts,

"Why no pants?" Gerard slaps his hand over his face. "Pretend I didn't say that."

Frank cracks up. "Dude!"

"No, I--"

Frank squeezes his eyes shut and folds in half, cackling. Gerard can feel his face turning red. He's bitten his lip kind of hard, too, but he can't seem to let go. "'Why no pants,'" Frank gasps, "Oh my god, you are amazing."

"Shut up! Ow," Gerard says, and touches his lip.

"Dude, it's fine," Frank says, unfolding slightly. "I forget."

"You _forget_? I mean. How can you forget?"

"I just. I don't know. I spend a lot of time naked." Frank straightens, tilts his hips and leans back against the sink. Gerard wants to stare at him all day, in between sucking his dick. _Straight_ , he reminds himself, _girlfriend girlfriend girlfriend_. "Hey," Frank says. Gerard jerks his eyes up guiltily. "Don't you spend a lot of time around naked people?"

"Arty naked, not kitchen naked," Gerard says, affronted, and then rolls his eyes when Frank cracks up again.

"Arty naked!"

"Bastard," Gerard mutters into his cigarette, but he can't help a small smile. Frank's laugh is infectious.

"All right, c'mon," Frank says, "are you ready yet? Let's go be bedroom naked." He winks at Gerard. Gerard chokes on his cigarette, and Frank cracks up again.

"I'm glad I'm so amusing," Gerard wheezes. He stubs his cigarette out in the ashtray on the kitchen table and trails after Frank. He nearly bangs into Frank's back when he stops. "What?"

"Where do you want me?"

After a moment's hesitation, Gerard answers, "On the bed," and then kind of wants to die. Frank nods and goes over to Gerard's bed. He crawls onto it, right where Gerard was sitting this morning, and he curls up in the sheets where Gerard slept.

Gerard thinks about naked grandmothers, ice cold waterfalls, getting duct taped to a stop sign naked in the middle of winter. "Um," Gerard says, and shakes his head, "Just. however you're comfortable." Frank curls up on his side, pulling a pillow under his head. Gerard moves around, dragging lights over, moving the space heater, shifting his easel to a better spot. When he's all set up, Frank's face is slack, his mouth slightly open. "Hey, jerk."

"I'm awake," Frank mutters, his eyes opening. "Barely."

"That's adorable," Gerard says.

Frank wrinkles his nose. "I'm rubbing my balls on your sheets for that," he says, wriggling down.

"I don't care, just hold still," Gerard says, and wishes he could draw the way Frank looks when he's giggling, face smushed into the pillow.

"'M probably gonna fall asleep," Frank says, "I mean, while you're drawing."

"Do you stay in one place?" Gerard asks, sharpening his 3B pencil. "I mean, when you sleep."

"Mmhm," Frank says, "very still, I swear." He shoves his arm under the pillow. "You need me all-the-way naked?" His right eye opens just a bit, and his fingers curl in the sheet.

"Nah," Gerard says, already sketching in the rough shape of Frank's shoulder, "shut up."

"Yes sir," Frank says, and closes his eyes again. Gerard takes a deep breath and focuses on moving the graphite across the paper.

When Gerard's watch beeps the hour, he's got Frank's torso and face positioned, the perspective and the proportions in place, and started some of the detail work. He makes some darker marks on the paper where the sheets fold into shadows, and gets the rough shape of Frank's leg under the cotton.

"Hey," Gerard says, finally. He blinks hard, trying to clear away the fog. "Frank." Frank doesn't move. Gerard goes over and crouches down next to the mattress, his hand hovering over Frank's shoulder for a moment before he gives him a little shake. "It's, like. Three. I don't want to keep you much longer. Frank."

Frank grunts, opens his eyes, and shuts them again. "Unh," he says helpfully. He drags one arm out from under his pillow and grabs Gerard's knee. "'M up." He levers himself up with a huff of breath; halfway up he makes another noise and plants his face on Gerard's thigh, next to his hand. "Never mind."

Gerard wants to laugh, wants to fall over backwards, wants to tumble forward and press Frank against the sheets. He holds very still, instead. "I don't want to keep you," he repeats. "You want another coffee?"

"Sure," Frank says. His breath is hot through the fabric of Gerard's jeans. He turns his face, hiding his eyes in the side of Gerard's arm and making sleepy snuffling noises. Gerard's dick isn't hard, but he's suddenly conscious of it anyway, where it is in relation to Frank's head and his fucking gorgeous mouth.

"I have to move," Gerard says.

"Okay," Frank murmurs. Gerard thinks for a second that he's going to have to make Frank faceplant, but then Frank flops backward, hissing at the light. "Fuck. Fuuuuck," he moans.

When Gerard comes back with the freshly-nuked coffee, Frank is sitting up against the wall, his hair mussed and his face petulant. Gerard laughs, trying to turn it into a cough and failing. Frank just makes a face at him and takes the coffee when he offers it. "Yes, mock my pain, I get it. Asshole."

Gerard takes a few steps back, cocks his head. "Do you feel up to standing?"

"Yeah," Frank mutters into his cup, "My butt's kind of asleep, it'll be good for me. Give me. I don't know, ten minutes."

"Do you have to be anywhere?" Gerard starts dragging the lamps around again.

"This girl and I are having dinner," he says, "A date thing, I have to be on time. And then, fuck. I think I have another session at your school? At, like, eight at fucking night. I'm fucking booked, man, it's crazy."

"Oh?" Gerard fusses with the shade on one of the bulbs, feeling his skin flush.

"Yeah, there are practically no male models, y'know. Phil's got it even worse, 'cause he never says no." Gerard makes a soft noise of assent. "Molko probably gave you Phil's number. He must have been busy, yeah?"

"I," Gerard says to the space heater. "I didn't call him, actually."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah, the first model I called said he'd do it."

Frank laughs, but he looks oddly touched. "What're you doing tonight, anyway?"

"I guess drawing," Gerard says, "Can you come lean against the wall?"

"Sure." Frank groans as he struggles to his feet, then shuffles over to the window, face still in his coffee cup. "You sure you don't want me against the window? I can moon--" he peers out, "114th street."

"No, I think you showing them your cock is enough," Gerard says. Frank shrugs.

"My cock cures a lot of ills. I'm not going to keep that away from the world." Frank turns away from the window and slouches against the wall.

"I'm going to be pretty healthy, then," Gerard says, "I think I've gotten enough of your cock today to keep me for a month." He can feel his cheeks heating up, and he busies himself with dragging over the easel.

Frank snorts. "Trust me, you haven't had enough," he says, "Not nearly enough."

"Gross," Gerard says, but he has to duck behind his easel to keep his face composed.

This feels like flirting. He hasn't flirted since he was a drunk, and Frank is straight, so Gerard's not completely sure. It feels like flirting, though. Probably Gerard's flirting, and Frank's just being friendly. "Totally gross," he repeats, cursing the blush that's building in his cheeks.

"That's so harsh," Frank says, and there's the clink of his cup going down on the window sill. When Gerard peeks out from behind his drawing pad, Frank's got his arms folded and his chin up. "Dissing my dick, that's so not okay."

"I'm sorry," Gerard says, looking as earnest as he can, "Your dick is lovely. No offense intended," he says, looking directly at Frank's crotch, and Frank cracks up. Gerard looks back up at Frank's face, and they grin at each other stupidly. Maybe Frank's flirting, too, Gerard thinks, and then firmly squashes the thought.

"I like you," Frank says, "you giant weirdo."

"Thanks?" Gerard feels his face start to heat up again, and he flaps his hand at Frank. "Start standing already."

"All right, all right."

"I like you too," Gerard adds, as he sketches swooping ovals to map Frank's body position. "Asshole."

"Sweet," Frank says, and then falls silent again. Gerard gets the way Frank's holding his body down as fast as he can, so he can catch the quirk of his lips while it's still there.

When he's worked through most of the image and is trying to make sense of the angle of Frank's nose, Frank mutters, "What can I move?"

"Oh, shit, sorry," Gerard says, "Um. Everything but your face, I swear I'm almost done."

"It's cool," Frank says out of the side of his mouth, slowly shifting on his feet and swinging his arms. Gerard hurries, smudging in the subtler shapes of his face with his thumb.

"Okay," he says, "not great, but."

"Let me see," Frank says, and walks over. He really is comfortable naked; he steps right in front of Gerard with no concern for what Gerard can see, how close they are. "Fucking awesome, dude," Frank says. Gerard shrugs. "No, fuck that, don't shrug at me."

"The hand's kind of funky. And your face isn't right yet," Gerard points out. He gestures at the side of Frank's left arm. "And here's where I had to redraw your bicep, like, fifteen times, and I didn't quite get the knee right." He pauses. "Doesn't your sternum look weird to you? I-- ow!" Frank pulls his fist back to punch his shoulder again. "Hey!"

"It's nice," Frank says, through gritted teeth. He only drops his fist when Gerard nods dumbly. "Jerk, it's awesome. It's a really good picture, but it's also a really good way of, y'know--" He smiles, then, suddenly and completely happy. "You're a really good hand mirror."

Gerard laughs, and Frank just keeps grinning at him. "You're. Okay, fine, but. Don't hurt me, but I think some of it's you."

"What?"

"You're a really good model," Gerard says. Frank beams and him and practically chirps his thanks. Gerard rolls his eyes. "Okay, I get it, I should take a compliment."

"Damn straight." Frank goes to the couch to gather up his clothes, shakes a cigarette out of a battered soft pack and sticks it in his mouth before he even puts on his underwear. Gerard gives Frank his lighter so he doesn't have to search for his own. "Thanks."

"No problem. Hey, um. Do you have a standard rate? We didn't even talk about that."

"Fifteen an hour," Frank mumbles. Gerard snaps his head around.

"No way," he squawks. Frank doesn't look up from his jeans, and pulling them up isn't exactly a difficult task. "Hello, jackass, I am not _stupid_."

Frank jerks his head up and waves his hands, spreading smoke around. "What?" he says. "That's not what I meant." Gerard stalks over to the window and shoves it open. Frank catches his wrist and tugs, gently. "Dude, hey, you're a student, not an art school," he says.

"I kept you for, like. For forever." Gerard glances down at his watch, tries to do the mental math, and fails. "Like, three hours."

"It's enough just to have some cash, man, it's okay. None of the schools pay models until the end of the month. It's why I even pick up freelance work."

"You. Ugh," Gerard says, and tugs on his bangs. Frank finishes buttoning up his jeans, smiling at him now around his cigarette and from behind his hair. "I'm paying you twenty an hour."

"No you're not." Frank holds out his cigarette, and Gerard takes it so he can slip on his t-shirt. "Thanks. You're paying me fifteen. And." He shakes his hair out of his eyes and looks up at Gerard. "This is going to sound cheesy, okay?"

"But-- okay?"

"A kiss."

"What?"

"It's like, you pooch your lips out, y'know--"

"Fuck you, I know what a kiss is, I mean. What?" Gerard's stomach is clutching at itself, and he feels totally, inappropriately sick. "Why are you asking for that?"

"Because I want it," Frank says, stepping a little closer. "And I'm pretty sure you won't punch me." He pauses. "So I want fifteen an hour and one kiss. With tongue," he adds, softly, already looking at Gerard's lips. Gerard laughs, doubtful. Frank just catches Gerard's chin in his hand and fits their mouths together, like it's that easy.

Gerard is still caught up in his head; it's the only explanation he can give for why he opens his mouth, presses his tongue in against Frank's. Once they start to kiss, though, he wants to keep going. Gerard loves kissing, and he's missed it. He's missed the way his tongue feels when someone kisses him, like rubbing plush fabric against the grain. He missed touching the bone of someone's skull under their skin, feeling the little noises they make against his lips and his fingers. Frank is surging up against him, open mouthed and a little wild, a little desperate. Gerard just hangs on.

Frank bites Gerard's lip gently, and Gerard pulls away, slides the hand he has in Frank's hair down to press his thumb against Frank's lower lip. "I'm not." Gerard says.

"Not what?" Frank's lip drags under the pad of his thumb.

"Not, y'know. I'm not like this. I don't do stuff like this."

Frank's eyes are mischievous. Gerard tries to memorize how they look, how his flesh makes that glint happen with the light. "Okay, sure," he says, but he doesn't sound convinced. He squeezes Gerard's hip and steps back. Gerard drops his hand and picks at the fabric of his jeans. "So," Frank says brightly, "Where's the rest of my fee?"

\---

"Nnn-- fuck. Who's dead?"

"Hi."

"Fucking-- look, kid, nobody ever--"

"Nobody ever died from lack of sleep, I know," Gerard interrupts. He presses his forehead against the kitchen tile, tucks the hand not holding the phone in between his folded knees and his chest. "What time is it?"

Brian grunts. "Fuck. Three in the goddamn morning."

"Sorry," Gerard says, his throat closing up, and Brian sighs.

"Don't start feeling bad for yourself, you're already pissing me off." They're both quiet for a moment. Brian sighs again. " _What_ , Way?"

"You know how." Gerard stops and swallows. "You know how Bert and I broke up?" Brian makes a rough, annoyed sound of assent. "And I told you. I said I was done with boys, because I didn't really like them, y'know, and I didn't really like sex with them and I was going to date girls?"

"Christ," Brian says, and yawns. Gerard can hear his jaw crack over the phone. "Hold on, I'm switching to the cordless. I need coffee for this shit."

Gerard laughs. It sounds thin and watery, but at least he's laughing. "Brian," he says, "I'm so fucking useless."

"Of course you are," Brian says, "Now tell Auntie Brian all about it."

"I just." Gerard listens to his breath rushing through the phone line, rubs his lower lip against the damp plastic. "A boy kissed me."

"A boy or a man?" There's the quiet clicking of a lighter, and Brian inhales deeply. "Get a cigarette, will you? Are you on your kitchen floor?"

"Fuck you," Gerard says, but he makes himself unfold and struggles to his feet. He finds his pack of cigarettes on the counter and fishes one out. "A man, obviously."

"Hey, I don't know what kind of people you've been hanging out with lately," Brian says mildly. "So he's of age, and he kissed you of his own free will. What's the problem?"

"I'm not gay."

"Right."

"I'm not," Gerard says, shutting his eyes tight.

"Okay, honey," Brian says, still mild, completely implacable. Gerard lights his cigarette and leans against his kitchen counter. "Was it with tongue?"

"Yeah?"

"Did it get you hard?"

"No!" Gerard squawks. Brian is silent. Gerard takes a deep drag on his cigarette, and murmurs, "Just a semi," on the exhale. Brian snorts.

"Kid," he says, "Far be it from me to try and shoehorn anyone into any category. You can be a flaming catfucker, for all I care, as long as you don't drink. But you keep kissing boys--"

"I know--"

"I don't think you do," Brian says sharply, cutting him short. "You've only got about a year and change under your belt, and you don't know shit. And you keep calling me at ass o'clock about _boys_ , Gerard."

Gerard blinks, feeling hot and sick and too young, like he's going to throw a tantrum on the kitchen floor. He takes a deep drag of his cigarette instead, flicks the ash on the tile. They smoke in silence.

Brian breaks it to say, "Look, I can't tell you what to do. You got yourself sober, and that means you get to make the choice. But Gee," and his voice is maddeningly patient, "Kissing boys and pretending to be straight as the Cleavers? Not a great way to stay on the wagon. When I told you to make friends, I didn't mean 'get your dick sucked and cry about it,' I meant 'join Young People's AA and stop depending on your brother.'"

"I know," Gerard says, "Okay, I mean. I get it."

"So," Brian says after a beat, "Is he hot?"

Gerard coughs, startled. "Uh. Sure, I guess. I mean, yeah. Really hot."

"You've got decent taste when you're not fucking yourself up the ass," Brian says, like he's not the straightest man Gerard knows. "But if you make out with him again I have to see him in person."

"Okay, fine. You'll scare him off, though."

"If he's not scared by you, he's sure as shit not going to be scared of me," Brian says, "and if he's not scared of me, I can beat the shit out of him."

Gerard startles and coughs. "Hey," he says warningly. "Don't make me call your P.O."

Brian laughs. "Only if the kid needs it. I'm nothing if not fair."

"Brian," Gerard huffs. "I'll be fine. I can take care of myself."

"I'm not worried about you, princess, I'm worried about me. How's it going to look if I let some asshole knock a kid I sponsor off the wagon?"

Gerard laughs, and Brian says, "All right, you're really laughing, you're fine. Don't sit on the kitchen floor again, okay?"

"I won't."

"Are you hungry?"

Gerard pauses, checking in with his stomach, meditating on how he feels. "Kind of?"

"What are you going to eat?"

Gerard digs around in the fridge and finds some takeout that he got a couple of days ago. "I'll nuke some Chinese."

"Angry?"

Gerard sighs. "No. And not lonely, either."

"Well, you'd better be fucking tired, because I'm tired. You're lucky I'm so good at not drinking, kid, or you'd have already driven me back to the bottle."

"Fuck off," Gerard says, and Brian says, "Aw, baby, you too. Kisses!" before Gerard hangs up on him.

Gerard looks down at the lo mein and shrugs, shoves it in the microwave and sets it for a couple of minutes. Might as well.


	3. Chapter 3

Gerard's pretty excited to see Frank, at least at first. They're supposed to meet on Friday, in the evening, just so Gerard can do a few little sketches and some finishing work. Gerard daydreams about it all day on Wednesday, through class and his shift at the art store, half excited and half nauseated. Frank is so cute. He seems to actually like Gerard, and he was _such_ a good kisser.

By Thursday, though, Gerard's remembering how antic Frank was, how sarcastic. How he had a date with a girl the same night as he kissed Gerard. Gerard didn't swear off of boys because he's homophobic. Gerard likes to see men holding hands on the street, and he gets all teary-eyed over lesbian moms in the park. Boys are just a bad idea for him. Gerard has empirical evidence of that fact.

Anyway, even if Frank were a good idea, Gerard hasn't had anything even remotely approaching sex since Bert. He knows he'll embarrass himself. Frank's probably used to models and skinny punk rockers. Gerard's a little pudgy in some places from no exercise, and too skinny in others from nothing but coffee and cigarettes and cheap Chinese food. His pubes are too long, and he can't be bothered to trim. Even if Gerard took his clothes off and Frank didn't run screaming for the hills, Frank would probably want to do some kinky shit that Gerard hasn't even heard of.

Thursday night, Gerard decides that he has enough of Frank in his sketches, and that they don't need to do another session. They've already scheduled it, though, which means Gerard can't just avoid him.

"Maybe if I leave the house for the day," he mumbles.

Mikey is silent for a long, long time. Gerard wags his head back and forth while he waits. He's finally rewarded with, "Fucked up."

"Shut up," he says, but it's weak.

Mikey snorts, and there's the sound of shuffling. "It's fine if you don't want to," Mikey says, and Gerard knows that if he leaves the house for the day, Mikey will forgive him. Mikey won't even mention it again, probably.

It'd be so easy, just to go out for a coffee and happen to be out when Frank comes over. Gerard chews at one of his fingernails, thinking it over. "Too easy, huh," he says.

"I don't know," Mikey says, meaning _yeah_.

"Okay," Gerard says, and rests his head against his knees. "I'm gonna go call him."

"Okay," Mikey repeats. They sit there. Mikey says, "He'll understand."

"Yeah," Gerard says, and gusts out a sigh. "Whatever, it's not a big deal. He'll just be out a little cash."

"He sounds nice," Mikey says.

"Yeah."

"Go call him."

"Okay. Love you."

"You too, 'bye," Mikey rattles off, and the phone clicks.

Gerard bounces his head against the cabinet for a second, mustering his nearly non-existent courage, then gets up so he can dial Frank's number from the paper taped by the receiver.

The phone barely has time to ring. "Hello," an unfamiliar voice says.

"May I please speak to Frank?"

"And who's this?"

The guy is kind of grunty and sarcastic sounding, like the theater techs in high school who made fun of Gerard's clothes. Gerard pulls the phone away from his ear, rolls his eyes, and mouths _jerk_ , as if Mikey's standing there to see him. "This is Gerard," he says politely, returning to the phone.

"Oh." There's a long pause, then a clatter and something that sounds like an animal dying. "Fucking-- here," the stranger says, and then Frank's laughing loudly and unapologetically in Gerard's ear.

"Hi," Gerard says, over the laughter.

"Hi," Frank says breathlessly, and Gerard blushes. "Did Bob bother you? I'm trying to train him to use the phone, but. Ow, asshole! One sec." The phone clatters down, and Gerard can hear Frank screeching something about honor and monkeys, then a series of loud thumps. Gerard exhales. He's about to hang up when he hears Frank say, "Hello? Hi?"

"Hi," Gerard says, bringing the receiver back to his mouth. "Are you-- is everything okay?"

"Yeah, sure, Bob's my bitch, everything's normal." Gerard hesitates, wondering who or what Bob is to Frank. He opens and closes his mouth a few times before Frank speaks up again. "So what's up?"

"I should cancel," Gerard gets out, "I mean, I need to cancel on you, for this week? Tomorrow?" Frank is silent. "I mean, I'm going to be busy. I guess we could reschedule, but I know you've got stuff, and I've got enough from the last time we met." He forces his mouth shut with a snap.

"That's cool," Frank says easily. Gerard smiles in spite of himself, and pumps his fist. He's just opening his mouth to start saying goodbye when Frank asks, "So what're you going to be busy with?" He sounds genuinely curious.

Gerard stops. He drops his hand to his side again. "Um," he says, and laughs nervously. "I have a project for my Anatomy class?"

"Cool!" There's rattling around on the other end, and Gerard can hear the low rumbling of Frank's friend saying something. "What's the project?"

"Hah," Gerard gets out, and clears his throat. "Um, this. I guess. I mean, it's-- it's like a, a half-body? Um."

"A half-body? That sounds kind of awesome. Can you tell me about it?"

"It's like, half regular, like, real body? And then. Um." Frank is silent; even the rattling has stopped. Gerard wants to die. "Like, the muscular structure, well-- the other half--"

"You are really, really bad at lying," Frank says. "Really fucking horrible." Gerard's hand squeaks against the phone, and he flinches. Frank says, "Maybe you should stop trying."

"Yeah," Gerard says miserably, and folds down to sit on the floor. "I'm sorry."

"It's cool," Frank says, "What's going on?"

"Um. How much time do you have?"

"It's what, three?"

Gerard checks his watch -- 4:21 -- and says, "Three minutes past three, yeah."

"A fan of precision," Frank says, and there's a hiss in the background, "Tell you what, I'll make myself lunch. I usually take an hour. Bob!" he yelps, suddenly, and Gerard pulls the phone away from his ear. "Do you want a grilled soy cheese or not?" There's a garbled noise in the background, and Frank yells, "Of course with tomato, you fucking douche, who the fuck do you think I am? Sorry," he says, in a more normal tone of voice, and Gerard presses the receiver back against his ear. "Go ahead, explain yourself."

"I started drinking when I was thirteen," Gerard says. He doesn't know he's going to say it until he does; it's like his first meeting, half-drunk and dizzy in an unfamiliar room, the words pouring out of him while people stared. He waits for Frank's response, barely breathing.

"Shit," Frank says, "Almost forgot the tomato." Gerard takes a deep breath, closing his eyes, and lets it out slowly. There's the sound of the fridge door opening and closing on the other end of the line. "So, thirteen, huh?" Frank says, but his voice is slightly kinder.

"Yeah," Gerard says.

"Stealing from the older kids?"

"From my mom, actually," Gerard admits, and laughs. "A shot from every bottle in the liquor cabinet, y'know? I would top up all of the bottles with water afterwards."

"And she never noticed?"

"She never was much of a drinker," Gerard says fondly, thinking about his mom drinking watered-down martinis without suspecting the difference. "I noticed, though. Got to the point where it was more water than alcohol." Frank laughs, softly. Gerard listens to him breathe for a little bit. Something sizzles, and Gerard asks, "Do you make your grilled cheese in a frying pan?"

"Sure," Frank says, "Short order style, with a pot lid. You come over sometime, I'll show you."

"My brother makes them on a barbecue," Gerard offers. "Like, a little mini grill, a hibachi, y'know?"

"Ooh, good idea."

"Yeah, until he forgets about them and they light on fire," Gerard says.

"That kind of sucks, yeah."

"I like them burnt by now," Gerard says, and Frank laughs again. Gerard smiles down at his knee, rubs his hand over the denim, and starts again. It's easier now that he's started, and Frank isn't flipping out. "I got the guys on the corner to buy me beer when my mom's stash wasn't good enough. I liked beer better than liquor, anyway, so I ended up doing that most of the time. Sometimes I snuck in and stole it, when I couldn't find a guy."

"How old were you then?"

"I started that at maybe fifteen," Gerard says. He closes his eyes and remembers the cans thumping against his side in his coat pocket, the giddy foamy rush of the beer at the back of his throat, the stink of the back lot behind the convenience store where he'd go to drink.

"Bob, come get your sandwich, you pasty bastard!" Frank yells. "This is pretty good," he says, "Your story."

"Yeah, well. I mean. Skip the parts where I pissed myself walking down the street, it stays a pretty good story."

"Shit, really? Pissed yourself?"

"Yeah. Just. I was at this bar that I knew served minors, which I normally didn't do, I usually stayed on my bed at home. But I got some money from my aunt, and I treated myself. Got a little stupider than usual, 'cause I don't like bars. Didn't like them. I was feeling pretty good, though," Gerard says, remembering just how good it had felt, slightly unsteady, warm, unthinking. "And then I realized that my jeans were wet. All the way down the front, just. Soaked in piss."

"Holy shit," Frank says, and laughs. "So that's when you got better? I mean, you're better, right?"

Gerard scrubs his forehead. "No. I mean, I didn't get sober after that. After I pissed myself, I just walked home, changed my pants, and got a guy to get me a thirty pack." He smiles into his knees, hugging them with one arm. "Drank myself stupid again."

"Huh," Frank says, and there's the hiss again of the frying pan, the sound of rattling metal. Gerard waits, but apparently that's all Frank wants to say.

"But I'm a year sober, about," Gerard says into the space, like he used to say it to himself in his mirror. "I mean, fourteen months and six days."

"And you're never going to drink again?" Frank asks.

"Not if I can help it," Gerard says, "I'm in recovery."

"But not ever," Frank reiterates. Gerard sighs, and Frank hurries to say, "No, man, I think I get it, like-- friends of friends have been in the program, I mean. But it seems kind of like overkill."

"It's--" Gerard starts. He hides his face against his knees, presses his eyes against them until there's nothing but sparking white behind his eyelids. "Who's the most important person in your life?"

"My mom," Frank says, "Why?"

"Would you ever steal from her?"

"No," Frank says promptly. "I mean. No, I don't think I could. I took a couple of dollars from her purse, once, and it made me feel like shit."

"Would you ever take a swing at her?" Gerard asks.

"Never," Frank says, soft and emphatic. Gerard drags in a breath.

"I needed a drink one day, and I stole from Mikey. My little brother. I took some of his money that he was saving for a guitar." Frank doesn't speak. Gerard drags in a breath. "He caught me. He yelled, and I tried to punch him. In the face. Because he was trying to get me to stop. He was going to take away the only thing that mattered to me at that point." He stops, and laughs, touching his cheekbone where he'd clipped Mikey. "And _that_ wasn't even when I got sober."

"Did he-- did Mikey forgive you?"

"Eventually," Gerard says, "I mean, sort of immediately? He's my brother. But when I finally got sober we came around to being friends again."

"Shit," Frank says, half-reverent. "You must've fucked him up good, huh?"

"Yeah," Gerard agrees, "Yeah, that was pretty much my full-time job, back then." He waits, and when Frank doesn't speak, he says, "I couldn't stop, was the thing. I told myself I would never hurt my brother, that that would be the sign I was looking for. And then I did, and I still couldn't stop." Gerard presses his eyes against his knees even harder. "There's a switch in my head, y'know? It's not like I'll quit for a while, and eventually I won't want it again." He remembers the way that stolen beer felt in the back of his throat, and swallows convulsively. "I still want it," he admits.

"It's a disease, or whatever," Frank says, quietly. "I guess I get it, yeah."

"So, whatever," Gerard says, finishing in an embarrassed rush. "I'm kind of bad at social situations and stuff, still. With people I like, even, I'm just. I'm just bad at it." Gerard takes a few deep breaths, feeling emptied out. "I used to be better at them, back when I drank. I was funny."

Frank is silent for a couple more breaths. "Look," he says, finally, "Can you come over?"

"What?" Gerard says, and opens his eyes, trying to blink away the spots. His vision swims. "Wait, what?"

"Come over," Frank repeats, "I want to see you."

"I--" Gerard says, and closes his mouth again. "I'm. I can't, I mean."

"Why?"

"I'm not. I don't." His throat is closing up, and he has to stop to swallow. "Why?"

"I told you, I want to see you." When Gerard doesn't speak, Frank sighs. "Come over. I'll burn a soy cheese sandwich for you, and Bob'll talk to you about video games. I'm supposed to go to this party tonight, but fuck it. Let's hang out." When Gerard doesn't say anything, he says, "It'll be okay, I promise."

"Okay," Gerard says, startling himself. "I-- okay."

\---

The subway ride is fucking torture. Everyone else in the car with him is so clearly at home in themselves: the little old lady in her plaid wool suit, the teenagers laughing in brightly-colored jackets, the punk kid brooding out the window, the businesspeople in trench coats reading their folded newspapers.

His own reflection is a pale-skinned mannequin, a poorly-assembled collection of parts. His shoulders are hunched, he's stooping like an old man. He looks like no one in particular, and he isn't; he's just a drunk who isn't even drunk anymore.

Gerard looks away from the window, then closes his eyes. He focuses on swaying with the motion of the subway car, on the coolness of the air in his mouth, on the pain that radiates up from the soles of his tired feet.

By the time he turns down Frank's street, Gerard's mumbling to himself like a crazy person. "One step at a time," he says, watching his feet striking out along the pavement, "this is good, you're taking a walk, you're walking someplace, you're going somewhere. You'll get there, and there will be food, and they know. They know. They'll let you hide in the tub, you can hide in the bathtub."

He stops talking to think about that, about cool surfaces, about a grungy bathmat, about white walls rising around him, a mildewed shower curtain shutting out the world. "Bathtub," he says, "Bathtub," and cups his hands around his face, shielding his eyes from everything but the sidewalk in front of him. It's just enough to get him to Frank's front door. He presses the button for Frank's apartment, and it buzzes open almost immediately. Gerard shoulders the door open, watches his feet take the stairs.

"Hey," Frank says. Gerard jerks his head up to look at him.

"Can I sit in your tub?" Gerard asks. He sounds rough and crazy, but all Frank does is shrug.

"Sure."

The tub is white, and Gerard sighs with relief. The bathmat is blue and fuzzy and bleach-spotted, the shower curtain is covered in fish and spotted with mildew. It smells like bathwater and shampoo. Gerard carefully closes the curtain and curls up at the far end of the tub, tucking his hands into his armpits.

With the curtain closed, the smell is stronger, denser, and the light is dimmed. Frank sits down on the toilet tank to eat his sandwich, but Gerard can only see his vague, blurry imprint through the curtain.

"In the Talmud," Frank says, "the liver is the seat of anger."

"Are you Jewish?" Gerard asks, after a beat, and then clears his throat.

"No, just into trivia." Frank chews quietly, but the sound fills the space when Gerard doesn't speak. "So, what's up?" Frank says, and Gerard laughs weakly.

"Subways suck. And I'm a head case."

"Well, I knew that," Frank says, "I meant what's _new_."

"Fuck off," Gerard retorts, and they both snigger like grade schoolers. "I don't know, I randomly told this hot guy how fucked up I am and then climbed in his bathtub."

"Hot guy, huh?" Frank says blandly.

Gerard flushes, and takes one hand out from his armpit to pick at the mildew in the grouting. "Yeah, he's pretty smokin'," he says.

"Can he come smoke in there?" Frank says, quick with it. Gerard bites his lip, digs his fingernail into the grout. Frank continues, "He'll give you a cigarette."

Gerard nods, then belatedly says, "Yeah, okay, he can."

Frank slides around the curtain, cigarette held out like a peace offering, and then squashes himself down next to Gerard. They're both sideways, legs folded into their bodies. Frank's knees are bump companionably against Gerard's. "Dude," Frank says. He stretches his neck out to light his cigarette, and blows the first drag out at the curtain. "This is actually pretty sweet. How'd you get this idea?"

Gerard takes Frank's lighter out of his hand and lights his own cigarette, then hands it back. "I don't know," he says, "I don't really like showers, or baths, or anything. I guess I just like little spaces."

"Huh," Frank says, and takes another drag. They smoke quietly for a while, the air around them growing dense and blue-tinged. "I'm kind of claustrophobic, normally, but this is nice."

"Yeah," Gerard says. "I like it."

Frank finishes his cigarette first, and runs a thin trickle of water from the tap to put it out. Gerard holds his out when he's done, and Frank takes it, his fingers sliding over Gerard's. He leans out briefly to put the butts in the trash can; when he ducks back in, he crawls over Gerard, forcing Gerard to shift awkwardly underneath him. He's grinning. "Hi," he says, "You came over."

"I came over," Gerard agrees, looking cautiously at Frank's grin.

"I'm glad," Frank says. Gerard thinks he's going to kiss him -- he almost closes his eyes, he's so sure -- but Frank braces himself and pushes Gerard around instead, getting him to stretch out in the tub. Gerard's shoes bracket the spigot at the other end of the tub. "Is this okay?" Frank asks.

Gerard isn't entirely sure what he means. "Yeah," he says.

Frank settles down on him, his legs squashed up alongside Gerard's, his face smashed flat against Gerard's neck. Gerard slides his arms around Frank's middle, where his t-shirt is riding up. The skin there is hot and soft against his forearms. Gerard closes his eyes. He can feel Frank's heartbeat, a muted thudding above his own.

Gerard draws people all day. He's studied pictures of muscles and bones, memorized how bodies are put together. He owns three or four books just of human anatomy. He's studied the body from every angle, and every depth. It's not as though Frank's body is special. Every body is warm from the blood that works under its skin. Every body has this complex interrelation of parts. The heat of Frank's skin should not be a revelation.

"You're so warm," Gerard says, stupidly. He opens his hands and presses his damp palms to the curve of Frank's waist. He can feel Frank smile against his neck. The tub is kind of uncomfortable -- Gerard's head is propped up oddly, and he can feel damp spots soaking into the bottom of his jeans -- but he relaxes anyway.

They don't lie there for that long, just long enough that the floor of the tub starts to warm up. When Frank shifts, though, Gerard makes an annoyed noise. Frank stops to quirk his mouth at him. "I'll burn your sandwich," he says, "Special order, I don't do that for just anyone."

"Okay," Gerard says. After Frank levers himself up, Gerard gets up out of the tub and staggers out of the bathroom after him.

There's a hot, tough-looking blond guy sitting cross-legged on the floor when they come out of the bathroom. "I fucking hate Stop and Go Station," he says conversationally, staring at the screen, and Frank lets go of Gerard's wrist to drape himself over the guy's back. The guy looks over at that, smiling up close and personal with Frank before he turns back to the game. Gerard shoves his hands in his back pockets, but then Frank looks up and says, "Hey, this is Bob."

Bob looks over at him. Gerard smiles, and Bob says, "Oh."

"Oh?" Gerard parrots, his smile fading.

"Things suddenly make sense," Bob says, snickering and shaking Frank off when Frank awkwardly tries to punch his kidneys. Bob pauses his game and holds out his hand for Gerard to shake. "Dude, do you play DK?"

"Don't fucking get him started," Frank says, levering himself up roughly on Bob's back.

"DK?" Gerard asks cautiously. Bob is the theater dork from the phone, but he seems nicer in person, at least thus far.

"Donkey Kong. Donkey Kong Country, actually. It broke the world of gaming wide open," Bob says distractedly, unpausing the game, and Frank rolls his eyes. "Don't let anyone tell you it's overrated."

"Original music, brilliant graphics, blah blah award-winning blah blah," Frank calls back as he walks into the kitchen.

"Pre-rendered 3-D graphics, bitch," Bob says. Gerard settles gingerly onto the couch.

"Can I smoke in here?" Gerard asks Bob.

"Yeah, light me one?"

"Sure," Gerard says, startled. Bob doesn't make the gesture to take the lit cigarette when Gerard holds it out, and after a beat Gerard sticks it in Bob's slack mouth. Bob clamps his lips down around it and mutters his thanks.

"Burn it? You really want it burned?" Frank yells, like he's not right there.

"Yeah," Gerard says, "Like, flame-broiled. Could write with it, y'know, cavemen drawing style. And no tomato," he adds.

"Lame," Bob says, and then, "Fucking barrel! Christ! Eat shit and die, you bucket of piss." Gerard opens his mouth to say something, then shuts it. He smokes, instead.

The game is actually really pretty. He's afraid of insulting Bob's masculinity, though, so he doesn't say anything until Bob hits the level called Ropey Rampage. "Holy shit," Gerard says, "Fuck, wait, pause it." Bob does, and Gerard scrambles down to look closer, waving smoke out of his eyes. "That is so fucking crazy. Look at that rain, that's fucking gorgeous."

"Ooh, looks like Bob's got a boyfriend," Frank sings, and Gerard makes a querying noise in the back of his throat.

Bob says "fuck off" like it's an afterthought. He puts down his controller and takes his cigarette butt out of his mouth, stubbing it out in the ashtray at his feet. His eyes are really blue. "Do you actually like it?"

"Yeah, yeah," Gerard says, tucking his hair behind his ears. "This, I mean, the color works in a really interesting way. And the graphics are really amazing. When was this made?"

"It first came out when Nintendo renewed the Donkey Kong license in 1990."

"Holy shit," Gerard says, and blinks at the two monkeys paused mid-hop. "That's impossible."

"Don't suck him off in my living room!" Frank yells. Gerard sits back on his heels. Bob's still looking at him speculatively.

"DK's the way to my heart," Bob finally says. "But you smoke girl cigarettes, so you're safe."

"That's very binaristic of you, sweetheart," Gerard says. Bob snorts and unpauses the game.

"Sexy girl cigarettes, though," Bob says. His eyes fold up into a smile at the corners, even though his lips don't move.

"I'm a hot slut," Gerard says earnestly, and Bob actually chokes. His monkey dies. Gerard pats Bob's back until he stops coughing, and then folds down to sit at the foot of the couch.

Gerard watches the rest of the game with his knees bumping up against Bob's. Bob is actually pretty nice; he doesn't yell at Gerard for commenting on the game, and he stops a couple of times to explain what's going on.

Eventually Frank wanders out with a charred fake cheese sandwich on a plate and a cup of coffee for Gerard. He's done a good job with it. The sandwich is really nicely burned, and Gerard can barely tell that it's soy cheese. "Just like home," Gerard says, after he's wolfed the whole thing down, and Frank laughs.

"His brother makes them on a grill," he says, nudging Bob's back with his foot. He's sprawled out on the couch, his legs open and loose. Gerard kind of wants to put his face in Frank's crotch, but he's stifling the urge.

"I wondered why Frank was burning that shit," Bob says, "That's crazy, no tomato and burnt bread. Fucked up." It's the most he's said about anything but Donkey Kong, and Gerard is weirdly pleased. He smiles at Bob, who shakes his head and repeats, "Fucked up," before he gets to his feet. "I'm going to work, keep my baby in soy cheese," he says. Frank grins up at him and waggles his fingers until Bob grabs them and gives them a little shake. "Gerard, it's been a pleasure."

"Yeah," Gerard says. "I mean, you too."

After Bob leaves, it's too quiet. It feels like the room has been wired, like someone will be listening in if he dares to say a word. Gerard stares at the blank gray square of the television screen, at the streaks that someone's fingers left in the dust on the glass.

"I watched a nature special once," he starts, breaking the silence. When he looks over, Frank's watching him from under half-closed eyelids, his expression unreadable. Gerard hooks his hair behind his ear, self-conscious. "About dust mites."

"You're going to creep me out, right?"

"No, I mean. Maybe. It's just cool, that we're surrounded by dust and these little bugs, right? Like, I can see where you touched something in the dust on a table, or something, but if there's dust everywhere, then there's a record of where you've been all the time. These bugs keeping track of us, kind of. We just can't see it." The corner of Frank's mouth is tilting up, slowly, and Gerard makes a frustrated noise. "Stop laughing at me."

"I'm not," Frank says, "I think I get it."

"If there's all this dust in this room," Gerard says, and Frank nods. "I walk through it, and it leaves a smear, or. It leaves a whirlwind behind me-"

"A wake," Frank suggests.

"Yeah! Yeah, like a boat." Gerard bites his lip. "I don't know where I was going with this," he mutters.

Frank pokes him with his foot. "C'mere."

"What?"

"C'mere, I said."

Gerard shifts down the couch awkwardly. "Okay."

"Closer."

"What great big teeth you have, grandma," Gerard says, and shifts over. "Why do you keep laughing at me?" he asks, looking at the corners of Frank's mouth.

"I'm not laughing," Frank insists. "I'm not."

"You're laughing at me inside, I can tell," Gerard says.

"Paranoid," Frank says, taking one arm out from behind his head and tugging on Gerard's shirt. "I think it's sweet, that's all. You're leaving a wake behind you right now," he says, pointing over Gerard's shoulder. Gerard glances back. He can just barely see the dust motes swirling in the dim light.

"Yeah," Gerard says, "Yeah, exactly."

"C'mere," Frank repeats, and tugs a little harder on his shirt. Gerard falls forward, catches himself against the arm of the sofa, and nearly smacks his chin into Frank's teeth. When Frank kisses him, Gerard's still laughing nervously, and their lips buzz against one another. Frank pulls back, but before Gerard can apologize he says, "You wanna smear my lip dust?"

"Yeah," Gerard says, "Yeah, I do." He dips his head and brushes their lips together, back and forth.

"Gerard was here," Frank says, when Gerard lifts his head. It's corny as hell, but it makes Gerard laugh. They kiss again, and again, and then Frank opens his mouth and Gerard loses track, caught up in Frank's lips and tongue.

Gerard is still braced on the armrest, hovering over Frank with his knees digging into the couch cushions. His shoulders hurt a little, and his knees. He won't stop, though. Frank is in constant motion underneath him, his body twisting and untwisting, arching and falling. He seeks out Gerard's tongue with his; he makes choppy little noises in his throat, asking for more. He's every synonym for demanding. It makes Gerard think that maybe Frank wouldn't even let him stop. It's strange, but Gerard likes it. It feels like Frank wants him, like he'd protest if Gerard pulled away.

Then Frank jostles his leg. Gerard makes a surprised noise and lifts his head. "Over," Frank says. When Gerard finally gets the idea, he shifts so that Frank can move his leg over to the side. Frank hooks his leg around Gerard's waist, and then surges up to kiss again. It's the same as before, but now Frank's pushing on Gerard's lower back, trying to lever him down. Gerard breaks away from Frank's mouth to mutter, "I'm heavy."

"Sure," Frank says. His eyes are wide and bright, and his mouth is wet. He's gorgeous. Gerard stares at him for a crucial second, and when Frank unexpectedly twists up against him again, Gerard falls on him with a strangled sound. His fingers scrabble uselessly against the armrest of the couch. His belly squashes up against Frank's, and his hard-on presses rude and obvious against Frank's crotch.

"Sorry," Gerard gasps, right in Frank's face.

Frank twines his arms around Gerard's neck and says, "Oh, yeah, exactly." His voice is wrecked. Gerard stops trying to push himself up. They breathe together for a few long breaths.

"It's okay?" Gerard whispers.

"More than okay," Frank says. "I told you to c'mere."

Gerard kisses him, then, harder than he dared to before. Frank makes a shocked, pleased noise and digs his fingernails into Gerard's shoulder and scalp. _Oh_ , Gerard thinks muzzily, and keeps kissing like that, hard, pushing Frank's lips apart and exploring the inside of his mouth. The underside of Frank's tongue is softer and pulpier than the rest of his mouth, and Gerard loses himself in it for a moment, stroking the tip of his tongue up, learning the ridges and curves. Gerard imagines that he could lose himself in the cavern of Frank's mouth. He could live there, maybe, like Jonah in the whale. It's strange, but Gerard has to rock down at the thought of it, rubbing his dick against Frank's hip. Frank makes another perfect, needy noise, and Gerard rocks down again.

They shove against one another after that, off-tempo but insistent. The seams of their pants catch against one another, and Gerard's shirt slowly bunches up under his armpits. The skin of Frank's arms is sticking to Gerard's shoulder and neck, and where their stomachs are pressed together gets slick with sweat. Gerard palms the pilled fabric of Frank's sweatpants, and Frank tips his hips up. His lips slack and wet and soft, and Gerard thinks vaguely of taking Frank's clothes off. If they were naked, this would feel--

"Hi, Frank."

Gerard startles, hard, banging his nose into Frank's. They yank away from one other, Gerard cursing and holding his nose, and then scramble to the opposite ends of the couch.

"Hi," Frank says. Gerard blinks up at the guy standing there.

"Oh my God," Gerard says.

"Hi, Gerard." Ray gives a dorky little wave. Gerard hunches over to cover the fact that he's still kind of hard. He waves back sheepishly with the hand not cupped around his nose.

Frank blinks back and forth between the two of them. "You know Gerard?"

Ray grins, and Gerard can't help but grin back, though he's blushing a deep red. "We went to high school together," Ray tells Frank, "I haven't seen him in ages, though." He's a little reproachful, and Gerard feels a familiar flash of guilt under all his embarrassment. He struggles up off of the couch so he can give Ray a hug hello.

Ray hugs him back, squeezing his shoulders tight. They keep their hips kept pointedly apart from one another -- Gerard is not putting his erection anywhere near Ray's private parts -- but from the waist up they're actually almost clinging. Ray pats Gerard's back, a light version of the manly back-slap, and they pull apart again. Gerard sinks back down to the couch, feeling wrung out. Ray takes the lone living room chair and clears his throat. "So," he says.

"How are you?" Gerard asks awkwardly, after a long pause.

"Shut up, dude!" Ray says, and laughs. "How the hell are _you_? I can't believe you're alive!" He glances over at Frank. "And kissing dudes!"

"Shut up," Gerard replies automatically, and Ray puts up his hands mock-defensively. "Yeah, I know, I know."

"It's Frank," Ray tells him consolingly. "Bob says he's the universal donor for the manlove."

"Look at him," Gerard says, "Even girls want to bend him over, I bet."

"I am in the room," Frank says, affronted, and Gerard and Ray crack up.

Frank makes Ray his own cheese sandwich, after they sit around for a while. Gerard comes in the kitchen and watches Frank shake the sandwich around underneath a metal pot lid, just like he said on the phone. "My grandpa makes them like this," Frank says, "He was a short-order cook for, like, two seconds in the sixties?"

"That's really cool," Gerard says.

"My grandpa's pretty cool," Frank says, matter-of-fact. "He's fucking awesome, actually."

Gerard looks at Frank, the black hair hanging in his face, the tattoos, the ripped neck of his t-shirt. "I'd bet money he is," Gerard says honestly.

Frank has to rehear a slightly nicer version of how Gerard got sober while Ray eats his sandwich. Ray is gentle about his questions. He's the same sweet guy Gerard remembers from high school, just better-looking and able to talk about something other than guitar and girls.

Ray's still playing the guitar, though; he tells Gerard that he's only crashing with Frank for a month or so while he's doing some freelance recording for a semi-famous local musician. Gerard does not think about what he and Frank have been doing on Ray's temporary bed, and he suspects that Ray is doing the same kind of mental editing. Frank appears to be oblivious; he's lolling around on the couch, legs spread, grinning at Ray. Gerard pokes at his foot a few times, but Frank just wiggles his toes in response.

Frank ends up making them dinner, and Gerard only leaves when it's long past sunset. "Sorry I overstayed my welcome," he whispers to Frank, hesitating at the door.

"It's okay," Frank whispers back. "I'll see you tomorrow." Gerard hesitates a moment longer, and then darts in to press a kiss to Frank's cheek. Frank doesn't say anything, but Gerard doesn't hear the door close until he's down two flights.

\---

Gerard spends most of the night thinking over the conversations he had at Frank's apartment. It mostly went okay, Gerard knows that. He still winces over the campier things he said, and over how long he stayed. He only drifts to sleep after early morning, when the windows are turning from black to a dull slate-gray.

He dreams of his mother's house. He's in the basement, in his old bedroom, and there's a door that wasn't there before. He opens it, revealing a dusty, empty room with another door. He stands in the doorway for a moment, just looking.

But then Gerard remembers that he forgot to wake Mikey for something Mikey had to do. Mikey must be behind the door somewhere, Gerard knows, so he opens it. It reveals another room and another door; that door opens to another room and another door. Gerard is sweating, the flashlight in his hand giving a weaker and weaker beam as he goes through the dark rooms. "Mikey," Gerard calls, "You have to get up," and hears Mikey say something from somewhere beyond the next door.

Gerard wakes up with a gasp. He pushes himself up on his hands and says, "Mikey," waiting to hear his brother's answering mumble. When it doesn't come, he sits up and wipes his eyes, looks around his apartment and remembers where he is. "Right," he says.

Gerard sits for a moment in bed, collecting himself, before he kicks off the sheets and pushes himself up off of the mattress. He pulls a pair of underwear and his jeans on, finds a t-shirt, and then shuffles out to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee. While it brews, he stares at the linoleum floor. He wants to wake Mikey, still, wants to walk out into his bedroom and shake his brother awake, but Gerard knows he can't. Mikey isn't out there, it's his apartment in Harlem. Mikey is home, in Jersey. It was just a dream.

He's only barely managed to shake the feeling by the time the coffee's made. Gerard pours himself a cup and shuffles back out to neaten up the apartment. He keeps glancing at the other side of the room, looking for Mikey's bed, and it makes him feel surly and slow.

At three minutes past the hour, Gerard's buzzer goes off, and Gerard walks over to press the button to let Frank in. Gerard's trying to decide whether or not it would be weird to have a cup of coffee already poured when Frank shoulders through the jammed-open door, kicks out the book and snaps the lock shut behind him.

"Where's my coffee, mister?" Frank asks. Gerard pours him a cup and hands it over silently. Frank slurps at it gratefully, and then won't put it down; he takes his coat off while awkwardly juggling the mug. "Hey, thanks," he says, when Gerard takes the coat out of his hand. Gerard doesn't have a coat rack, of course, so he just folds it over the back of a chair.

"So," Gerard says. It's the first word he's said all morning, he realizes. His head feels foggy. He slurps at his coffee again, trying to shake off the feeling from his dream.

"Right," Frank says. He tugs on the bottom of his shirt with the hand not clutching his mug. Gerard waits for him to yank it off, but he seems stuck.

"Do you-- are you okay?" Gerard says.

"Of course," Frank says. "So, a couple of the same poses, I guess?"

"Yeah, like we talked about," Gerard says. "Yesterday. Like we talked about yesterday."

"I know," Frank says, almost sounding sulky. He finally puts down his coffee mug, and pulls off his t-shirt. He struggles a bit to get the neckhole over his head, and when he emerges he's faintly pink.

"Are you--" Gerard starts, and then laughs a little, disbelieving. "Are you _nervous_?"

"Shut up," Frank says. He's definitely sulky. Gerard goes into the main room and puts out his charcoals and his pens, waiting for Frank to make a move. When he turns around, though, Frank is still in his yoga pants, jittering in place. Gerard looks at him. Frank toys with the elastic waistband of his pants. "It's just a little weird," he says.

"What is?"

"Modeling when the artist is. I mean. When they're attracted to me."

"Did you think I wasn't attracted to you before?" Gerard asks, perplexed. Frank shrugs, his shoulders bunching together. His fingers are working at the t-shirt, rolling it into a messy log and unrolling it again. Gerard drags his easel into position and crouches down to fiddle with the legs.

"I guess not, but I was mostly arty naked before."

Gerard snorts. "You're arty naked now," he says, looking up at Frank.

"Yeah?" Frank says. He hooks his thumbs into his waistband, and then hesitates again.

"It's like if you were modeling for someone you were attracted to, I guess," Gerard says, sighing, "You focus on other stuff, right? I focus on other stuff."

"Modeling for someone hot can be weird, too," Frank says, "I usually won't even do that. Or, y'know, I don't look at the cute people in the classes I model for." He pushes down the pants, finally, and steps out of them, kicking to get them off his shoes.

Gerard's hands jerk, and the legs of the easel screech on the floor. "Oh," he says evenly.

He drags the easel a few feet further away from Frank. Frank's crouches down to untie his shoelaces, and he doesn't say anything. Gerard wants to say _that was a really nice way to put it, asshole,_ but he doesn't. He stands up. He focuses on other things.

He does a couple of quick sketches of Frank's hands, his hips, his cock, his feet, and then finally his face. Frank giggles quietly a couple of times, but he holds steady. When Gerard asks, Frank looks at the drawing Gerard did of him standing, and copies the pose so that Gerard can elaborate on a few little details. Frank cracks a few jokes while Gerard is working on the larger drawing, but Gerard doesn't feel like responding or laughing. Eventually Frank falls quiet, and Gerard works in silence.

Gerard appreciates the quiet, but it means that what Frank said rolls around at the back of his mind like a rough pebble, irritating him. Gerard's not surprised by Frank's disinterest, not really. He suspected that Frank wouldn't be totally into him. 'Not hot' isn't precisely an insult, either, but it's not a compliment, either. Gerard wants to be wanted, to be sexy. He won't do it if Frank doesn't want him.

But that's still kind of irritating, even after that revelation. It's weird, it's weird that Gerard told Frank about getting sober, that he let Frank into the bathtub with him, and all that time Frank didn't think Gerard was hot. It's rude, Gerard decides, to kiss people you don't really like. It's not fair.

Gerard's anger registers in the darkness of the marks he makes in the paper, the absence of curves. "Move your hand right," Gerard says, frustrated by the light. Frank shifts his hand, and Gerard snaps, "Right, not left."

"Sorry," Frank says, and huffs out a little laugh. Gerard purses his lips and steadies his hand, focuses on keeping his pencil strokes loose enough so they don't come out jagged and awful.

He barely gets what he needs to get, but it's enough. "Can you remember how you sat last time?" he asks. Frank blinks at him, and Gerard shrugs. "I have the drawing here, obviously. If you need it."

"Are you pissed at me?"

Gerard looks at him, keeping his face blank. "Why would I be pissed at you?" He leans down and pulls out the picture of Frank sitting in the chair.

"Because you're stupid?" Frank offers.

"Ha ha."

"What?"

"Never mind," Gerard says, "Just sit in the chair." He means it to come out strong and impatient, but instead he sounds plaintive. He bangs a pen down on his easel ledge to cover it up. Frank crosses his arms. Gerard waits, but Frank doesn't sit down. "What?"

"Why are you being so crazy?"

"I'm _not_."

"You _are_."

"I'm-- god, just sit down and pose, okay?" Gerard stops and presses his fingers against his eyes, huffing out a breath. When he pulls his hands away, Frank is still standing, arms folded, mouth set. "Maybe you should go," Gerard says finally, "I have enough, it's fine."

Frank makes a disbelieving noise and finally unfolds his arms to throw up his hands. He's irritating as hell, but he's naked, and fuck if he isn't still fucking perfect. Gerard hates him, maybe, just a little bit.

"What the fuck," Frank says, and Gerard looks away. "I come all the way up here, and you're being a dick."

"Just go," Gerard says. Frank walks towards him. "I said go, asshole." Frank shoves at Gerard's shoulders, putting his weight behind it and knocking Gerard back. Gerard reacts too slowly. He only gets his hands up to push back when Frank's already got him crowded up against the wall.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" Frank asks, too close.

"What's wrong with you," Gerard counters. "You're acting like you don't know what you're doing." He tries to duck to the side, but Frank presses him back against the wall. Gerard tries to knock his arms away. When that fails, he tries shoving at Frank's shoulders. They grapple awkwardly at each other, Frank banging him into the wall and Gerard trying to push Frank away. They're both cursing and grunting. Frank suddenly twists his shoulders sideways, and Gerard's hands slip off of his skin. Gerard paws at Frank's shoulder blades, trying to get a grip, but he can't. "Leave me alone," he tries. Frank just bites his collarbone and presses closer.

"What's the matter," Frank murmurs, his breath hot and damp on Gerard's neck. Gerard shivers; his hands go still on Frank's back. He can feel Frank breathing, the swell and fall of his chest and the warmth of his breath. Gerard is sick with the mix of want and anger. Frank puts his hands around Gerard's waist and presses his face against Gerard's neck, like a kiss.

"Don't," Gerard says, and swallows. "If you don't want me, you shouldn't do that."

Frank pulls back to look at him. "If I don't want you?" he says doubtfully. "Are you-- You're serious. Are you out of your mind?" Frank takes a step back, his hands sliding down to touch Gerard's sides. "Wait, so you think I just make out with people who I don't want?"

"No?"

"You really think I'm that much of an asshole," Frank says, dropping his hands. Gerard makes a frustrated noise and grabs at him, trying to pull him back. Frank smacks at his hand.

"You were the one who said you don't model for people you think are hot," Gerard says. Frank considers him for a long moment, his expression fading from annoyance to confusion.

"I said 'usually,'" he says. Gerard grabs at his hip and pulls again. Frank hesitates, but he finally moves back into Gerard's space. " _Usually_ I don't." He tilts his head back to look at Gerard, his jaw set. "I didn't look at you once, during class. Not once."

"You didn't?"

"Not a single fucking time," Frank says, sliding his fingers back around Gerard's waist and up under his shirt. "Did you even notice how all of your pictures of me were of my ass? Or maybe my side?" Gerard shakes his head, and Frank huffs out an annoyed breath. "I was saying I like you, you fucking moron."

"Gee, I don't know how I didn't figure that out." Gerard is trying to snap, but it comes off a little more breathless and pleased than he intended.

"Sorry if you're dense," Frank says.

"Asshole."

"Dicksmack. Look, are you done drawing for a while?" Frank ducks under Gerard's chin to press his lips against the side of his neck.

"I don't know," Gerard says, but he tips his head back so Frank can keep kissing. He's been half-hard since Frank shoved him against the wall. Now that his anger is starting to fade, Gerard's mostly just turned on. "I figure I could always use more detail," he continues, after way too long a pause.

"Fuck you, then. I'm not modeling for you any more," Frank says, "You're too hot, I can't take it."

"Shut up," Gerard says, laughing breathlessly. After a beat, he continues, more soberly, "This isn't going to work, is it?"

Frank takes his face away from Gerard's neck and looks at him, his forehead creased. His hair is flopping into his face, and his lips are chapped. Gerard dips his head and presses their lips together.

"What?" Frank asks, when Gerard pulls away.

"Us. Or whatever. This," he finishes, gesturing between the two of them. Frank stops and considers what he's said, tilting his head to the side.

"Maybe not," Frank finally says, but he follows that with, "Make out with me now?"

"Okay, sure," Gerard says, rolling his eyes. "Thank you for taking my concerns so seriously."

"I think you're taking your concerns seriously enough for the both of us," Frank says. He starts to walk backwards, his hands on Gerard's hips. Frank is naked, and now he's grinning, wide and sweet. Gerard can't blame himself for following him.

Frank gets Gerard's jeans open, and he starts working them down over Gerard's hips as they stumble towards the bed. Gerard nearly falls over when he clips his easel with his shoulder, and he says, "Okay, okay, wait." He doesn't stop to think about it; he just shoves down his jeans and kicks them off of his bare feet. He goes back to Frank, cupping his face and kissing him. Frank giggles against his mouth, and then they stumble and fall back onto the mattress.

They land with a crumpling sound. Frank makes a face and pulls a fistful of glossy paper out from under his back. " _Doom Patrol_ ," he reads. Gerard is about to apologize, maybe lie, maybe fake complete amnesia, but Frank's face lights up. "Hey, I don't have this issue! Can I borrow this?"

Gerard makes a weird, half-formed noise before his brain catches up. "You like comics," he says doubtfully.

"Yeah, I fucking love them."

"You don't seem like the type," Gerard says, kind of snottily. As declarations of love go, it's probably the worst he could do.

"Are you kidding?" Frank says, reaching over to put the comic book down next to the bed. "My name is Frank, and I'm five foot four. I have ADD and I get sick all the time." He pauses dramatically. "I am a _nerd_."

"No way," Gerard says stupidly, shaking his head. Frank starts laughing, and Gerard sits up. "No way, that's not fair."

"What's not fair?"

"There were no hot nerds in my high school." Frank is still laughing. "Why didn't you go to my high school?"

"I wasn't hot in high school," Frank says, "No one's hot in high school."

"Don't lie," Gerard says, "I bet you were."

"Nope," Frank says, and giggles. "Take off your shirt, nerd."

"No!" Gerard tries to pin his hands, but Frank is slippery, and he's already got his hands under Gerard's shirt. "You don't want to see that," he insists, "Stop it."

"Shut up, dorkface," Frank says, and pushes Gerard's shirt up around his armpits, keeping it there even when Gerard halfheartedly tries to shove it down again. Gerard huffs, "Fine," and takes it off, his hair coming out disheveled and flopping in his eyes.

"Don't tell me what I want," Frank tells him. He puts his hands right on the pudge of Gerard's belly, then curls up and kisses one of Gerard's soft, strange-looking nipples.

"You've got weird taste," Gerard says. He leans down and kisses Frank, hard, and Frank hums his agreement.

They just make out for a long time, which Gerard likes. He doesn't want to rush himself, and kissing Frank is unpredictable. Just when Gerard thinks he's gotten the hang of kissing him, Frank bites his lip, or shoves his fingertips under the waistband of Gerard's underwear, or rolls them over so that he's on top.

"Can I?" Frank asks, rising up on his knees, and Gerard makes a confused noise. "Get you off?"

"Nah," Gerard says, and then snorts. "Are you kidding?"

"You should always ask," Frank says primly.

"Very true," Gerard snarks back. He gets the giggles, but they're cut short when Frank starts licking his own palm.

Gerard says, "You--" and then stops to watch Frank's tongue slide up over his fingers. When Frank stops to suck on his forefinger Gerard has to catch his breath. "I have lube," he finally says, "if you want it."

"Sure," Frank says, around his finger. He slides his open mouth down over his hand again, and Gerard gulps for air. Frank tucks his hand underneath the waistband of Gerard's underwear and pulls Gerard's cock out, and then slides his palm up over it, slowly.

Frank is fucking beautiful: he's hard, his knees spread, stroking Gerard's cock. Gerard knows he isn't dreaming -- he doesn't have the imagination to come up with this -- but it doesn't stop the thought from crossing his mind.

"Fuck," he breathes.

"Can you reach it?" Frank says.

"What?"

"Lube."

"Right." Gerard flings his arm out and feels along the side of the mattress, next to the wall, until his fingers bump against the plastic bottle. They fumble the hand-off, and the bottle almost falls on the sheets. "Fuck," Gerard says again, "here, let me." He thanks God for the manufacturers of the pump-top when he manages to squeeze a dollop out onto Frank's palm. "There," he says, and collapses back on the pillows.

"Life is hard," Frank teases, but he grabs Gerard's dick again.

"Oh yeah," Gerard says, but he's not exactly talking about life.

Gerard comes kind of fast, but he thinks he can blame Frank for that. The way Frank's hand feels on Gerard's dick, how he tightens his fist at the end of his strokes, sliding almost, almost off-- and how he catches it just at the crown, reverses, swivels back down, in time with Gerard's hips twitching up, up into his grip, well. Well, the way Frank does that is kind of criminal, and he deserves at the very least the larger portion of the blame.

Gerard tells Frank all of this, too, only it seems to come out as mostly vowels. "You too, whatever you said," Frank says. "You know you talk in monkey language when you're getting off, right?"

"Hate you," Gerard moans. He lays there for a long moment, then, with great effort, props himself up on one elbow. "Get up a sec?" he says, feeling lazy and so, so awesome. Frank bites his lip, but he pushes himself up and over so that Gerard can move around. Gerard wiggles over until he's situated perpendicular to the wall, his ass off the edge of the mattress. "We can do it all fancy next time," Gerard says, "But like this tonight. I'm all blissed out, I wasn't expecting the-- y'know."

"Awesome handjob," Frank supplies.

"That," Gerard acknowledges.

Gerard grabs a pillow and puts it behind his head. He lies back, makes a face, sits back up and folds it in half. "Okay," he says, when he's pretty sure the angle's right, "Come back up." Frank straddles him again, and he shuffles forward on his knees when Gerard beckons. He doesn't seem to be getting the picture, and by the time he hits Gerard's chest he's giving Gerard the fish eye. Gerard huffs out a sigh, gets his arms underneath Frank's legs, and shoves him up.

"Whoa!" Frank yelps. "I--"

"You should put your hands up on the wall," Gerard observes. Frank obeys him, still looking doubtful. Gerard opens his mouth and presses his palms up against Frank's ass, bringing Frank's cock to his lips. Gerard opens his mouth, looking up at Frank's face as he pulls Frank forward. Frank's eyes go wide. "Motherfucking fuck," he mumbles, when Gerard sucks lightly.

Frank acts like he's never done this before, which Gerard thinks is kind of sweet. He barely thrusts at all, at least until Gerard makes him, and even then he doesn't move with any of the kind of power Gerard knows he has, that Gerard can feel in the tension of his hip flexors.

Gerard moans appreciatively when Frank actually gets a rhythm going, and Frank mutters, "Jesus, fucking Jesus." Gerard looks up again. Frank's got his forearms braced against the wall, and he's looking down at Gerard, craning his neck to see Gerard's mouth. Frank groans and says, "Fucking Christ, Gerard." His hips snap forward, and Gerard's eyes water. Gerard closes his eyes again and focuses on Frank's skin, on the way he tastes and the way he feels in Gerard's mouth. Gerard's mouth feels abraded, his throat used; there's spit dripping down his chin and onto his neck. "Gerard," Frank gasps. Gerard doesn't even look. He pulls Frank forward, into his throat, and swallows, hard.

Frank trembles when he comes, and his hips stutter. It makes Gerard feel protective and happy and scared all at once, like he's holding a baby bird in his hands. Frank pulls back before Gerard's really ready to let him go, and he collapses to the side, off of Gerard's chest. His eyes are still wide open, and now they're a little shocked.

Gerard swipes his hand over the mess on his chin, mostly spreading the spit around, and pushes himself up. "Are you okay?" Gerard asks, and reaches out his other hand to Frank. Frank gives this disbelieving laugh, but he takes Gerard's hand and curls their fingers together.

"You're asking me that," Frank says, and Gerard nods. "Are you on-- no, you aren't. How are you real?"

"Wait, what?" Gerard shakes his head and smiles. "You're funny after you come, you know that?"

Frank laughs again, and then he flops forward, smushing his face against Gerard's chest. He smiles up at Gerard. "You have no idea what I'm reacting to, do you?"

Gerard shakes his head, a little doubtfully, and starts to push himself up. He needs clothes, and a cigarette. "No," Frank says, and nudges him down, "no getting up yet. And I'm just-- wow, you're good at that, I mean. And you like it?"

Gerard shrugs. He wipes his chin and neck with the edge of the sheet, working awkwardly around Frank's head. "Yeah, I mean. It's kind of lazy."

"It's kind of hot," Frank says, "it's mega-hot, in a dirty, freaky, 'I kind of felt bad because it had to hurt Jesus' kind of way." Gerard just stares at him. Frank sits up and hoots. "You had no clue! I am keeping you forever."

"You are so weird," Gerard tells him, "Give me a cigarette."

"Okay, porn boy," Frank says. He gets up and walks over to his jeans, gets the pack, and lights two while he's standing there. When he comes back over, he hands one of them to Gerard, and then bends over and paws around in the random shit by Gerard's bed. He comes up with the _Doom Patrol_ issue he fell on before. "Can I read this now?" he says. Gerard nods. "Awesome."

Frank scrambles back onto the bed and under the sheet. He kicks fussily at the sheets for a while, then scootches backwards until his back is against the wall. He opens up the comic and rests it on his belly. Gerard finds the trade of _Spiderman_ he was reading a couple of days ago, and he moves the ashtray onto the bed between them. "Thanks," Frank says distractedly, and ashes into it.

Frank reads slowly, considering each panel before he moves on to the next one. Gerard can see his eyes tracking down the page, the twitch back and forth as he reads the speech bubbles, and then a pause while he looks at the whole thing. When Frank finally turns to the second page, Gerard realizes that he's been staring. He flips open the trade and looks down at it, feeling his face flush.

Gerard forces himself to read a couple of pages before he looks up again, but when he does, Frank is looking back. "Hey," Frank says.

"Hey," Gerard says, and gives in to the urge to lean over and kiss Frank's navel. "You're-- wow," Gerard says, and Frank beams down at him, the biggest fucking smile, right there, all for Gerard. Gerard feels like his head is going to split with his own grin, crack in two like an overripe pumpkin. It's crazy, but he just feels-- wow.

They lie in bed for a while, reading comics and smoking. The air around them turns blue with cigarette smoke. Gerard eventually struggles up off the bed to open the windows. While he's up, he puts on a pair of underwear and, after some deliberation, an undershirt. "Unfair," Frank says, and Gerard detours to get Frank's underwear. He flicks them at Frank's head. "Thanks," Frank says dryly.

Gerard flips over the sheets with his drawings of Frank. He finds his drawing board, clips the seated pose onto the board, and leans it up against the wall. Frank looks back at him, a little cockeyed in the jaw still. Frank's real feet come into Gerard's line of sight, and Gerard looks up. "I need to fix the jaw, and fill in the hair," Gerard says.

"The jaw does kind of need fixing," Frank says. "Leave the hair. It makes me look like Poison Ivy, kind of."

"That'll go over real well with Molko," Gerard says, but Frank just nods.

"It will."

"It will?"

Frank nods again, his hair falling into his face. "It will."

Gerard shakes his head. Still, when he goes back to the drawing, he just fixes the jaw. He looks at the drawing, just looks at it, and then he draws in the circles for the irises of Frank's eyes a little deeper, and works at the fringe of Frank's eyelashes. He inks a lot of it, using one of his pens and falling into the customary habit of cross-hatching and simplifying the outlines.

Finally, after hesitating for a long time, Gerard picks up a stick of charcoal and layers it around the edges of Frank's body on the page. When he's got a thick layer of charcoal, Gerard sweeps it out towards the edge of the paper with the palm of his hand. Gerard sits back and looks at the drawing for a long moment, gauging it, and then pulls it off the board and picks up the next one.

He does the same work for the other two drawings, fixing a few small details, inking it over, and then working in the shadowy background in charcoal. When he looks up from the third one, his shoulders are aching, and the shadows at the corners of the room are darker. The sun is low in the sky. He looks around for Frank, rubbing irritably at his suddenly tired eyes.

"Hey," Frank says. He's back in his jeans, but he doesn't have his shirt back on. He's got a cigarette in one hand, and a mug of coffee in the other.

"You look like a magazine ad," Gerard says.

"You look demented," Frank says. He gestures at his eyes when Gerard doesn't get it right away. "Charcoal," he says.

Gerard swipes at his eyes, making it worse. "Shit, I'll never remember," he says irritably. "One sec." He pushes himself up awkwardly, his knees and hips aching from being in the same position for so long. Frank grins at him, but he gets out of the way so that Gerard can get into the bathroom.

"The drawings," Frank says, scratching the top of his head. Gerard makes an inquisitive sound, and Frank finishes, "They look pretty good." Frank leans in the doorway while Gerard splashes water on his face.

Gerard lifts his head. Charcoal runs down his cheeks in watery gray streaks. He looks away and meets Frank's eyes in the mirror. "You think?" he asks.

"Yeah," Frank says, "You've got talent."

Gerard splashes his face again, then buries his face in his towel. "I keep--" he says into the terrycloth, "I keep thinking that, if I wanted to do something, I wouldn't be doing art." Frank just looks at him, waiting, and he admits in a rush, "I always thought that if something happened, to my family, to me. I would start a band." He laughs, shortly, and looks down at the gray stained towel. "Stupid, right?"

Frank doesn't respond right away. Gerard looks up from the towel, meets his eyes, and immediately looks away from his skeptical expression. "Hey," Frank says, and grabs his elbow. "I'm just, I don't know. Why a band?"

"Music does something," Gerard says. He leans his head against Frank, then shifts and kisses Frank's cheek impulsively. "It makes something happen," he says, close to Frank's stubbled skin, then pulls back to meet his eyes. "It helps people get through the day, in a really simple way. Music can keep people going. And sometimes I get that, where it feels like--" He gestures vaguely, the towel flopping in the air. "It feels like the music is making your whole body sit up and sing."

"But so can art," Frank says crossly. Gerard laughs, and Frank insists, "No, it can. It's like anything else, I think. My mom's cooking can do that."

Gerard moves away and rests his butt against the sink. He considers Frank. "You really think so?"

"Yeah," Frank says. "Her pasta is fucking intense." Gerard laughs and shakes his head. Frank grins and continues, "I mean. The music my band makes isn't that kind of super-great stuff you're talking about. But we like it, and sometimes people like it, and sometimes it makes them happy. Sometimes it gets them out of their heads when they need it." Frank hesitates, looking like he's thinking about it. "It always makes me happy, anyway," he finally says. "You can't be all about saving other people, right?"

"Yeah," Gerard says, and laughs. "Brian's always telling me that the only people with high ideals are assholes and drunks."

"That's not true," Frank says, "But I think he's right to say it to you." He digs his cigarettes out of his pocket and sticks two in his mouth, lighting them both. He passes one over to Gerard. "Thanks," Gerard says, and Frank grins at him, sharp and private and perfect.


	4. Chapter 4

"Is that a hickey?" Maja says. She's smiling over the edge of her cup, the surface of her milky-brown tea denting and shifting with her breath.

"No," Gerard says automatically, then puts his hand up to the side of his neck. "Where?"

"Here." Maja's fingertips are hot from holding her cup of tea. The spot of skin she touches is sore. Gerard shivers, involuntarily.

"Guess so," Gerard says. He doesn't remember Frank giving him a hickey, but it might have happened. Or he banged his neck into something, poked himself. "Maybe I poked myself? Or it's a zit," he offers, and lifts his chin. She peers in and giggles, shaking her head.

"No, it's a hickey."

"Huh."

Maja bubbles quietly for a few moments, and then says, "Well? Who is it?"

Gerard bites his lip, but he can feel a goofy, tiny smile working its way out across his face. "You remember Frank? The model? With the tattoos?"

"Ooh," she says, and giggles again. "Ooh, ooh."

"Ooh," he agrees. "You ready to go back in?" Maja shrugs, still beaming at him, and Gerard holds open the door for her.

"He must be a good kisser. He looked like a good kisser," Maja says, bumping companionably into Gerard's space. She's got four skinny scarves wound haphazardly around her neck -- the weather's been getting warmer, but there's still a nip in the air -- and her hair's back in a spiky short ponytail. She's beautiful, Gerard can see that. He's not that gay.

"He is a really good kisser," Gerard agrees, and thinks of Frank's mouth. Maja giggles and looks up at him, and Gerard grins back at her. "I don't know if he likes me, though."

"He likes your neck well enough," Maja points out, and shoulders open the door to their classroom.

"Well, he likes me like that," Gerard says, and touches the tender spot again. "But I don't know if he likes me, likes me." Maja just rolls her eyes and flaps her hand at him. "I don't know," he says, moving to unzip the zipper of his portfolio. "I just want to give it time."

Molko doesn't make them draw on the days when they turn in work. For the midterm, though, he's having each one of them pin their work up, one person at a time, so that the class can do a group critique. Maja went before the break, with careful portraits that sectioned off her model's body into parts. It made her model seem lanky, even grotesque. Gerard was pretty sure that she was trying to work through what style she wanted to use on her senior projects. The other students had been nasty about it, but that's kind of normal; other art students are why Gerard hates art school.

Gerard slides his own work out with a sense of inevitability; he knows that they won't like it. Gerard takes out his sketchbook, turns to a fresh page, and starts a careful record of the critique:

MIDTERM CRITIQUE

  * looks like a comic book  

  * or graphic novel  

  * or maybe an Archie comic  

  * "nice enough"  

  * fuck you Dave you're a hack  

  * derivative moments whatever that fucking means  

  * eat Dave's dick Jenn seriously  

  * need more background shading, maybe in ink?



The last one is Maja's comment. Gerard underlines it twice and doodles a tiny star next to it.

Molko's comments are brief, and even though Gerard's stomach clenches and rolls, he's actually pretty positive. He agrees with Maja about the ink wash for the background, and then he says, "If you're going to invoke the graphic novel, you should do it intentionally, Gerard. There's no problem with the style, as long as it's done with intent."

Gerard looks at his pictures again, tacked up on the wall, and Frank stares back. He looks like he's thinking _I told you so_ , and Gerard has to hold back the urge to stick out his tongue.

Dave puts his work up after Gerard takes his down. It's a glorious finish, for Gerard at least; Molko totally rips Dave a new one for one of his portraits, which is basically a bland, simplistic series of lines. Gerard manages not to smirk at Dave while Molko yells at him, but it's rough going, especially when Dave starts to whine.

At the end of class, Gerard glances over to make sure Dave isn't paying attention and says to Maja, "But I was trying to work with the space of the page," in falsetto. Maja snickers, and Gerard feels like overall he's come out on top.

They turn in their portfolios, stacking their work together in one corner. His hands feel empty afterwards, without his kit or his drawing pad in hand. He fidgets with his coat lapels as he walks out with Maja. "So how are you feeling?" she says, when they pause outside the front door to light their cigarettes. Gerard shrugs, and she smiles.

"Do you want to get a coffee?" he asks. Maja blinks at him, obviously startled. "You offer every class," he says, tentatively, and she shakes her head.

"You just never-- no, of course I'd like to," she says, "As long as you're okay with meeting the boys, too." He nods, and she loops her arm through his. "So tell me about this hickey."

"Oh my god," he says, and pulls away from her. "No!" She's laughing at him, and he can't help but giggle. "I'm not telling you about my sex life."

"Oh, so it's a sex life?" Maja laughs, cocking an eyebrow. "Not just kisses?"

"Oh my god," Gerard repeats. She looks at him expectantly, and he coughs delicately and takes his time smoking. "I guess, sure. Does a handjob count?"

She shrieks and waves her hands. Gerard has to hide his face in his arm, and he nearly trips over the curb in front of the coffee shop. Maja catches his elbow. "Don't die," she says, "You lucky devil, don't die."

"I blew him, actually," he admits, and she tugs him closer to her, giggling again. "I am so easy."

"Easy doesn't matter. Was it good?" she whispers, tilting her head close to him. "Did you like it? Did he like it?" She turns her head to take a drag from her cigarette, exhales, and then turns back to him, expectant.

Gerard pushes his hair out of his face. "I liked it a lot," he says, feeling giddy and stupid. "He's so pretty. He's really funny, and really, like, critical? But in this really cool way, like he gets it and he cares. And he--" He pauses, "He has great hands. I mean, even apart from the. Y'know."

"I'm sure," she says, and leans back. She's laughing at him, but Gerard doesn't mind. "Oh, Gerard," she says, and he smiles at her around his cigarette, tucking his hair behind his ears again.

When they go into the coffee shop, Maja heads straight for a table in the back of the room. There are two men sitting there, with coffee cups sitting in front of them. One's a skinny white guy, wearing an obscenely purple jogging suit; the other's a skinny black guy, in a baggy white shirt and jeans. The black guy has his feet up on the white guy's lap. "I'm telling you, there was naked Twister," he says as they walk up to the table, "Right hand on green has been redefined."

"Hello boys," Maja says. She bends to kiss first one, then the other, stretching across the table to reach. "This is Gerard, my friend from school." Maja gestures back at Gerard, and Gerard gives them both a little wave.

"Hi," he gets out, and then the white guy is standing up and enveloping him in a full-body hug. "Nice to meet you," Gerard says to the guy's armpit.

"That would be Gabe," Maja says, laughing. Gabe pulls back and makes the horseshoe crab hand sign Maja had shown him. Gerard does jazz hands back, and Gabe gives him a thumbs up.

"And this is Travis," Maja says. Travis doesn't get up, but he shakes Gerard's hand firmly and says, "Gabe, could you get this man a coffee?"

"I won't even put anything in it," Gabe says, "But the day is young." He runs his hand over Gerard's shoulder before he leaves.

Travis snorts, and Maja rolls her eyes. "He's always like that," she says.

"How do you know him?" Gerard says tentatively.

"We started making time with the same woman," Travis says, and puts his feet up on Gabe's chair. Gerard blinks, opens his mouth, and shuts it again. They don't seem to notice; Maja tsks at Travis, and Travis grins back at her. "It's true," Travis says. "I only put up with him because of you, baby."

"Of course," she says, "You're not friends at all."

"Not at all," Travis agrees, and then shouts, "Get me a swizzle stick!" to Gabe.

"I didn't know you were with both of them," Gerard says. He feels dumb, but Maja just shrugs and smiles ruefully.

"I don't talk about it much," she says. "Mostly because people don't get it, yeah? But kind of because they're exhausting."

"I can imagine," Gerard says. "Are you-- I mean. This is kind of rude."

"Okay," Maja says, her mouth tilting up on one side.

"You're, like. You're all together?" Gerard wants to make some sort of hand gesture, but he can't think of what it should be. His hands twitch restlessly on the table. Apparently he didn't need a gesture, though, because Travis is shaking his head. "Oh, so not you and Gabe," Gerard says.

"No way," Travis says. "Not my type at all." He stops, and seems to be considering Gabe. "Gabe's not bitchy enough," he says, and Maja nods her confirmation.

"Isn't it hard?" Gerard blurts out.

Maja hesitates, and then shrugs. "Like I said, tiring," she says. Travis laughs. "And sometimes people say boring things."

"'I couldn't do that,'" Travis says, his eyes wide, and after a beat Gerard realizes he's imitating what people say. "'Don't you get jealous?'"

"They just imply that I'm a slut," Maja tells him, "Much easier to deal with. Those are the only downsides of having both of them in my life," she continues, turning back to Gerard, "the stupid shitheads and how much energy it takes. They're worth it, but." Travis rubs the back of her neck, and she puts her head down on her folded arms and gives a dramatic groan. He rubs his thumb along the side of her neck.

"We're definitely worth it," Travis says. "Don't lie to me, we're more than worth it."

Gabe puts Gerard's coffee down in front of him with a flourish, and hands Travis a swizzle stick. Travis pops it in his mouth. The two of them hold a complicated conversation with their eyebrows, and Gabe says, "Do I need to promise not to do something again? 'Cause I will, I'm primed. Get your promises while they're hot."

"I don't know," Travis says, "But I think we're good for the moment." He looks over at Maja again. His expression is warm and watchful. "She's just tired," he says, voice slightly softer. Gabe shoves Travis' feet off of his chair and sits down. Maja peers up at him through her hair, and when he puts his hand out palm up on the table, she reaches out and puts her hand in his.

That's what Gerard remembers about them, later. "They just looked peaceful," he says. The phone receiver is damp against his lips, but he doesn't pull it away from his face. "They looked like they were all supporting each other, that it didn't matter what people said about them, or how bad it got." Mikey is silent. "I just think that maybe Frank can be that, for me, maybe. I kept thinking about him, when they were talking to each other, and I think maybe he could be a friend. Too, like, a boyfriend and a friend."

"He likes comic books?" Mikey asks doubtfully.

"He really does, I promise. _Doom Patrol_ , he likes _Doom Patrol._ "

"Did you ask him whether he likes Batman or Superman better?"

"I was too scared," Gerard admits. "I think I would be into him even if he liked Superman."

"Okay, wow," Mikey says, and they both laugh for a long minute.

"I know!" Gerard says, when they've mostly stopped. "I would want to kick my ass, too. It's like, 'way to give up your principles.' But he's really-- he's really--"

"He's really Frank," Mikey interrupts.

"Yeah," Gerard says slowly. "Yeah, that's the thing." They're silent again, the both of them breathing. "Mikey, you'll tell me when you fall in love, right?" Gerard whispers, finally.

"I will," Mikey says, matter of fact, and Gerard breathes a little easier.

"I think I could be," he stutters out. "Getting there, I mean. Eventually." Mikey just breathes. "It's weird."

"Yeah," Mikey says. "Yeah, I know."

"Thanks," Gerard whispers. "I love you, Mikey."

"Love you too," Mikey says, "Gotta go, 'bye." It takes him a few seconds to hang up the phone, though. Gerard knows how he feels.

\---

"Do you want to hang out?" Gerard says, and shakes his head. "Okay, okay. Do you maybe want to go to a movie?" He shakes his head again, and then tips his head back to get his hair out of his face. "How about dinner and a movie?" he tries. "Ice cream and a movie? Tacos and a movie? Salad and-- fuck."

The picture of a hamster he has taped to his wall is unimpressed.

She started out looking kind of hopeful, but Gerard has been disappointing her. "Screw you," Gerard tells her. "Frank likes me. And awkward is charming." It comes out a little weaker than he wishes it would, probably because of the hamster's disbelieving expression. Gerard pushes himself up from his bed and goes out to the kitchen, where she can't condescend to him. The phone's out there, anyway.

He's getting better at this; it's only been a couple of weeks since he and Frank first started hanging out, but Gerard only frets for ten minutes now before he calls.

He calls, too. Gerard isn't usually the guy who calls. Not because he thinks he's hot shit -- though Bert had suggested that a couple of times -- but because he's forgetful. He zones out, has work to do, gets distracted by people who see him every day, goes to meetings instead of calling, calls his sponsor instead of calling, doesn't feel like it, it's been too long since he last called--

But Gerard calls Frank.

"Hello," Bob says, and Gerard says, "Hi! Is--"

"Hi, Gerard," Bob says. They sit for a moment in mutual silence. "I beat the level that was screwing me over on Zelda," Bob says, and Gerard makes an appreciative sound. "Frank's home, let me get him."

"Okay," Gerard says, but he's talking to dead air. Bob's amped about something; probably Legend of Zelda. Frank picks up after a second, and he hears shuffling in the background. "Can you tell Bob congratulations?"

Frank says, "Hey Bob, congrats." Gerard hears Bob say something back. "He says thanks," Frank tells him. "Did you call to talk to Bob or me?"

"You," Gerard says, "Don't be a dumbass. Do you want to go to a movie?" It's maybe not the way he meant to approach it. He can feel the hamster's disapproval through the wall.

Frank says, "Sure, what movie?" and Gerard blinks.

"Um," Gerard says, and laughs. "I hadn't thought that far."

"Why?"

"You might play hard to get," Gerard says, pawing through the papers on the kitchen counter to see if a weekly paper is mixed in there. There isn't. "Then I would be all disappointed that I'd picked this awesome movie and had nobody to see it with."

"When have I played hard to get?" Frank asks, like he's genuinely curious.

"I guess never," Gerard says, "but I've only got myself for a standard, and I'm way easier than you."

Frank scoffs. "As if!"

"But I tell people I'm a slut when I meet them," Gerard says. "Just ask Bob."

Gerard rolls his eyes when Frank immediately says, "Bob?" Frank is incredibly literal, Gerard is learning that. Frank continues, "Did Gerard tell you he was a slut when he met you?" Gerard smothers his laughter in his hand, just to hear Frank's laugh when Bob responds. "Oh my God, a 'hot slut'?" Frank says, giggling high and stupid. "You can't just go around saying that to my roommates." Bob starts talking in the background again. Gerard stretches the phone cord into the entryway of the bedroom and kicks around the mess there, back to looking for a paper. "Bob says it's okay, actually, because it's important to be honest, if you're going to be a hot slut and all," Frank tells him. Gerard _hmms_ thoughtfully, and finds a paper he'd picked up at his meeting the day before. "Are you paying attention?" Frank asks him.

"Yup," Gerard says. "I'm a hot slut, Bob speaks the truth, and you're helping me decide on a movie."

"Right on the nose," Frank says. Gerard goes back to the kitchen and flips open the paper on the counter. "Let's go to the theater by your place," Frank says, "I love the screens at that place, they're fucking ridiculous."

"You are so weird," Gerard says absently. "You're just catering to my agoraphobia, don't pretend you care about the screen size." Still, he runs his finger down to the theater nearest his house and meditates on their choices.

Frank chatters, "If we're going to see something awesome, it's really crucial that you get the full and complete awesomey goodness. Getting full goodness includes maximal screen size."

"And now you're trying to distract me," Gerard tells him, scowling down at the paper. "At least stop being obvious about it."

"Shut up," Frank says easily, "I like catering to your freakish fears, Gerard. It's why I'm your boyfriend."

Gerard's heart goes from first to fourth gear without even using the clutch, and his breath stalls in his chest. He coughs, bringing his lungs back on line, and says, "Well, good. Good for you. We're seeing _Shakespeare in Love_." In his head, a tiny fireworks show is taking place, spelling out BOYFRIEND in glittery pink lights.

"Does it have explosions?"

Gerard starts, and then remembers the movie. "Uh, yes?"

"Okay then."

The movie doesn't have explosions. The movie does have period dress, Gwyneth Paltrow's breasts, and witty banter, but there is a categorical lack of explosions.

Gerard only gets to see little pieces of the movie, though, over Frank's shoulder. It's entirely possible there was an explosion while Frank was distracting Gerard with his tongue.

"An explosion in your pants," Frank says, poking at the bottom of his soda glass.

"That, too. But there could have been an explosion on screen while we weren't looking." Frank's straw stops mid-poke, and Frank looks up and raises an eyebrow. "Probably not," Gerard admits.

Frank goes back to his ice cube excavation. "Definitely not. I have a sixth sense for approaching cinematic explosions." He puts down his soda, finally. "Can I put out now?"

"What?"

"TV tells me that if my boyfriend treats me to dinner and a movie, I have to put out," Frank says, looking at Gerard with big soulful eyes. Gerard gets distracted by the shine on his lower lip. Frank clears his throat pointedly, and Gerard starts, trying to pay attention. "TV's always right," Frank says.

"Right," Gerard says. "I-- what?" Frank's lower lip is soft and wet. Gerard wants to lick it.

"You suck at this." Frank digs in his pocket, slides some money onto the diner table, and grabs Gerard's hand. "C'mon, now you have to put out, too."

Then Gerard sneezes on Frank's dick.

Obviously there's some other stuff before that. There's running through the dark streets, laughing breathlessly, drawing catcalls from the people hanging out on their front stoops, Gerard feeling young and daring and completely sober.

There's the trip up the stairs, Frank's ass in front of him, switching back and forth under the baggy denim of his jeans until Gerard can't take it anymore. There's Gerard hauling Frank back by his belt loops on the landing before his floor and grinding up against him. There's Frank reaching back and dragging Gerard's head down, and Gerard kissing him hard, enjoying the happy hum Frank always makes when he does it.

And there's his apartment, finally, and remembering to close the door so they don't scandalize Mrs. de la Cruz more than they already have, and yanking off Frank's shirt and licking his gorgeous throat and unbuttoning his jeans. There's Gerard dropping down on his knees with a thud.

Then there's Frank's hands tangled in his hair, urging him forward just enough, and there's Gerard looking up, taking just the head of Frank's cock in his mouth--

And then he sneezes.

He doesn't bite, but that's about the only saving grace. Gerard sneezes again, wipes at his nose with his sleeve, and looks at Frank. Frank is gazing down at him with an unreadable expression. "You sneezed on my dick," Frank says.

"Yes," Gerard says. He can feel all of the blood in his body rushing to his face. Frank's hard-on is definitely going away. Gerard feels so unsexy right now, he thinks he may die. Maybe murder Frank to keep him quiet, wipe his snot off of Frank's dick, and then die. Gerard closes his eyes and wishes very, very hard.

"You--" Frank gets out. Gerard opens his eyes and chances a look up at Frank. Frank is shaking.

"I hate you," Gerard says preemptively, and Frank bursts into wild laughter.

"You sneezed on my dick!" Frank howls, and then he actually falls over laughing. Gerard punches him in the leg, and Frank curls up protectively. "Oh my God!"

"Oh my God," Gerard echoes, and slumps back until he's sitting against the far wall.

Frank is writhing around on the floor, gasping and red-faced. He is such an asshole.

"You're such a jerk," Gerard says, and nudges Frank with his foot. Gerard's smiling, though, a tiny little bit. Frank looks ridiculous.

"Sneezed!" Frank yells, and Gerard laughs before he can stop himself. He stifles it with his hand, but Frank points and yelps, and Gerard gives it up and just laughs along with him.

When they've finally laughed themselves out -- Gerard maybe prolonged it by saying "snotty dick" a bunch of times -- Frank is lying on his back, holding his stomach and saying, "whoooo" over and over, giggling in between repetitions.

"Oh man," Gerard says. "Can I ever blow you again?"

"Any time you want," Frank says, with satisfying speed. "But maybe you're allergic."

"I'll get shots or pills or something," Gerard says dismissively, flapping his hand.

Frank says, "That's so sweet," and leans over to bite Gerard's ear. Gerard just leans his forehead against Frank's chest and giggles.

Gerard finally whispers, "I've never done something that embarrassing while I was sober before." He picks up his head and rests his chin on Frank's chest. "Not since I was a little kid." Frank grins at him.

"It was awesome," he says. When Gerard looks doubtful, he says, "That's the whole point of sex, I think."

Gerard blinks. "What," he says, "dick snot?" Frank curls up laughing again, bumping the top of Gerard's head with his chin.

"No!" Frank says. "The embarrassing stuff. That's the whole point of sex, it's embarrassing." Frank lies back down, looking up at the ceiling. "When my high school girlfriend and I were trying anal for the first time ever, I couldn't stay hard."

"At all?"

"My dick was fucking floppy. No real reason why -- she was hot, I had no problems with my dick in her ass -- just couldn't do it." Frank wiggles his arm out from where it's pinned under Gerard's chest so he can push his fingers through Gerard's hair. "And then once I went down on a girl for, like, an hour, and it wasn't doing anything. Like, nothing. And then she finally gets fed up and yanks up on my hair, and I was like, 'oh, whoops, there's your clit! Hi!'"

Gerard gasps a little laugh, squeezing his eyes shut. "I used to get whiskey dick all the time," he says, and turns his head to rest his cheek over Frank's heart. "I would get hard, but then if I got distracted at all--"

"Limp city," Frank says. "I have so been there."

"And then one time," Gerard says, "I sneezed on my boyfriend's dick." Frank laughs again, and Gerard grins, feeling warm and weirdly perfect. "And I wanted to die," he says, "But I'm glad I didn't."

"Me, too. Success all around."

"Definitely."

They lie there for a while, sprawled half-clothed on Gerard's messy, messy floor.

Eventually Gerard manages to blow Frank without sneezing. Frank does a naked victory lap around Gerard's apartment, while Gerard curls up on his bed and giggles.

\---

So Gerard is Frank's boyfriend. It's perplexing, the experience of really being someone's boyfriend; Gerard's never really done it before, not like he is now. It's terrifying. All he's got is blurry memories of what he did wrong when he was three sheets to the wind and what he's seen in movies and TV.

Gerard starts keeping a list, because lists are good, lists are solid and reliable. Frank hasn't looked behind the edge of Gerard's curtains yet, so Gerard tapes his list underneath the first sketch he did of Frank. Thus far he has "flowers: whatever," "asking him out: yay (remember to pick a movie first)," and "no spider jokes."

Gerard's not sure how to rank "going to special events," though. He knows that if Frank were keeping a list on Gerard like Gerard is for Frank, that item would be "oh, how nice." When Frank asks him to come to a party at his house, though, he asks with a weird sort of formality, which makes Gerard suspect that it's a "kiss me now" sort of thing for Frank. It's unconfirmed, though -- Frank just smiles and nods when Gerard says he'll go -- so Gerard doesn't write it in just yet.

It's the first party Gerard will have gone to since he got sober, so Gerard calls Brian. Brian rattles off a list: stay away from the side of the house with the beer, talk to people you know, don't be afraid to leave, call me whenever you get home, Jesus princess one of these days you're going to give me an ulcer, make sure you eat well before you get there.

Then Gerard calls Mikey. Mikey tells Gerard about his history project and a record shop he found in the next town over. Gerard tells Mikey all about the party, and Mikey coaches him through what to do and when to go and what to wear. Gerard has to go to work before they can really talk about the party like Gerard wants to, but Mikey says, "Leave early if you want to," before they hang up, and it feels like enough.

Frank told him that the party started at nine. Gerard has a shift at the art store that ends at eight, but he jumps on the subway right afterwards, and he gets home in pretty decent time. He gets home and eats a giant bowl of cereal, and then forces down a bowl of canned soup on top of that. He takes a quick shower, even though he already showered three days ago, and he even washes his hair.

He decided to wear all black, even though Brian's always telling him to add color to his wardrobe. He figures a bunch of Frank's punk rock friends will be fine with an all black outfit. Anyway, Gerard's white and red shirts are both in the laundry pile, which is a definite sign that they won't pass a sniff test.

Even after all of that preparation, Gerard's still got a half hour before he's supposed to leave. He doesn't want to get there early -- he wants to get there late, actually, Mikey told him that, too -- so Gerard sits on his bed and reads comics for a while, then paints his toenails hot pink. Once they've dried, he's actually running sort of later than he wanted, which he figures has to be good. Gerard checks for his wallet and his keys one last time, grabs the new trade collection of _Transmetropolitan_ , and leaves the house. He buys a bag of skittles to eat on the subway, and then heads for the train that will take him to the train that will take him to Frank's house.

Gerard's stomach is turning over and over on itself. He catches a glimpse of himself in the subway safety mirror, and his eyeliner looks too thick on one eye. Once he's on the subway car, he checks himself in the window unobtrusively, wetting his fingertip with his tongue and trying to even it out. He brought his sunglasses, but Brian told him not to wear them inside anymore, even though it makes Gerard look like a vampire and is therefore excellent. Gerard gives up on fixing his eyeliner after he realizes that it isn't going to budge -- he'll just have an excuse to put on his sunglasses if someone says something -- and flips open the trade on his lap.

He's gotten himself in a worried mindset, though. He can't concentrate on the comic; he's too busy worrying that his clothes are too art school, and then that maybe Frank's friends will think he's a goth. He doesn't want them to think he's a goth, Gerard thinks sadly. Not that there's anything wrong with goths, but Gerard isn't one. Not really.

Gerard finally rips open the Skittles he bought, and spills them out in his palm. He counts how many there are of each color, and begins eating them in descending order of frequency; it keeps him busy enough to avoid worrying until he gets to the right stop.

When Gerard gets to Frank's place, there are a couple of kids sitting on the front stoop, smoking and sharing a bottle in a brown paper bag. "Apartment four?" one of them says, as Gerard walks up, and Gerard jerks his head in a nod. The kid pushes open the door. "Head right up," he smirks.

"Thanks," Gerard says, and catches the edge of the door so he can slip through. The kids are murmuring, and before the door swings shut he hears them snigger. He can already feel a blush working its way up into his cheeks, but he squares his shoulders. "At least I looked like I was going to apartment four," he says to himself, and starts up the stairs.

The door to Frank's apartment is banging open and shut. Gerard approaches it warily, but when he gets in front of it the guy who's been slamming it holds it open and says, "Percussion, sorry! Come on in!"

"Cool," Gerard says, and hooks his hair behind his ears. He gives the guy a smile, hoping it doesn't make him look like a tool. He asks, "Is Frank here?"

"Are you the boyfriend?"

"Yes, I'm the boyfriend," Gerard says. He clears his throat at the guy's grin. "Who're you?"

"Dan," the guy chirps. "I've heard some things about you, you're like a star in all the drama, hey?"

"Drama?" Gerard says faintly, but Dan is already shoving through the people crammed in the front hall. Gerard scrambles to follow in his wake. Everyone is staring at him, it feels like, but when he tries to make eye contact they turn away like they were never looking at all. There are a lot of faux hawks and edgy dye jobs. Gerard pats nervously at his hair with the hand not holding his comic book.

When Dan leads him into the living room, Frank is sitting on the back of the couch. Gerard stops and looks at him, appreciating the sweaty strands of his hair, the way his shirt clings to his body. Frank looks up, then, and he grins when he sees Gerard. "Hi!" he says, and he gets up to kiss Gerard hello. His mouth tastes like beer, and Gerard startles back. "Oh, sorry," Frank says. "Whoops. You look pretty."

"It's cool," Gerard says, trying not to screw up his mouth with distaste. "And thanks." He wipes at his mouth covertly with the back of his hand. "Is there juice?"

"Sure, other room," Frank says, and then turns back to whatever he was doing on the couch. Gerard stands there a moment longer, waiting for something, and then finally turns and walks into the kitchen.

He gets a glass of orange juice from the collection of mixers, stashes his comic book with the coats, and then walks around, searching for people he knows. He finds Ray at one point, and they talk amiably about guitars and high school again. Ray even tells him about the last gig Frank's band played.

"Frank pretty much dedicated a song to you," Ray half-shouts. "You've really done a number on him." Gerard blushes and preens. Ray toasts him mock-seriously.

Eventually Ray gets recruited to play flip cup, but Gerard feels pretty good about the conversation. He's feeling a little bolder, so he talks to a couple of new people, joining a conversation about electronica and one about fantasy novels. He makes people laugh a couple of times, which gives him a happy rush. He's actually feeling pretty confident by the time he bumps into Bob, so he exclaims, "Hi! Bob!"

"Hi," Bob says seriously. They look at each other for a beat.

"How's the Legend of Zelda?" Gerard asks, with more caution.

"Okay." Bob shoves his hands in his pockets and doesn't say anything more.

Gerard says tentatively, "Is everything all right?" and Bob blows out a breath.

"Look--" Bob stops. "I like you, but I can't talk to you tonight."

"What?" Gerard bites his lip and pushes his hair out of his face. "Okay?"

"I'm dating Jepha," Bob says, "And--"

Gerard takes a stumbling step back, feeling unreasonably betrayed. "No, it's cool, I get it," he says. Bob looks sorry, but Gerard still feels like he should get out of there soon. He escapes to the kitchen to refill his glass.

"What're you drinking?" a guy asks him. His eyes are bright, and his smile is a little too loose. "What's your poison?"

Gerard holds himself back from sneering, but it's a very near thing. "I've got it, dude," he says, and grabs the orange juice.

"Add the liquor first!" the guy says. Gerard rolls his eyes and pours the juice in, picks it up and smiles at the guy.

"Perfectly mixed," he says, camping it up just a bit.

The guy is not impressed. "Bogarting the mixer, so uncool," he tells Gerard.

"I'll buy more later," Gerard says. The guy ignores him, heading back out of the kitchen and into the mass of people in the hallway. "And go fuck yourself," Gerard mutters.

Gerard turns to the window. There are people in the kitchen, but it's a little quieter, and the lights are bright. Gerard really doesn't want to go back out to the living room right now.

There is a six pack of beer on the table, with four bottles left. It is Brooklyn Lager. Gerard does not particularly like Brooklyn Lager, but he'll drink it if it's the only thing around. He could take one of those beers right now, and no one would notice. Just one beer, if he drank it fast enough, would make him a little silly. Two would be okay, two to make him feel loose and easy, and he knows he hits the sweet spot at three. Three beers makes him the life of the party, makes everyone love him, makes him funny. There are four beers on the table, for anyone to take.

Gerard doesn't know why he does this, staying sober. He doesn't know why it matters so much. It's not like he's getting anything done anyway, or doing anything better than he did when he was a drunk. People like him better when he's drunk -- people have said so, even.

Gerard closes his eyes, sips his juice, and waits for the wanting to pass, waits for the surge of disgust that eventually wells up. Yeah, he could go back to drinking. He could go back to living at his mother's house, too, and being too scared to step off the front porch.

Gerard open his eyes. He focuses on the dark shape of the skyline, on the sound of his steady breathing, on the bite of the juice on his tongue.

"I brought rum!" someone shouts into the kitchen. Gerard turns away from the window, mouth half-open to respond, but then snaps it shut again. It's Jepha standing there.

"Hi," Gerard says stupidly. Jepha sizes him up, and thunks the bottle of rum down on the counter. Gerard turns around. His hands are already shaking, and he sets down his cup carefully.

"Well, then," Jepha says. Gerard feels fat, and frail, like he's curling up and sweating in the face of Jepha's anger. The few people that were congregated in the kitchen have already sidled out; someone else glances in, looks at the back of Jepha's head, and ducks back out. Gerard presses his back against the kitchen wall and squares his shoulders.

"Yeah," Gerard says, uselessly. "Hi."

"Remind me not to bring Quinn by here, I guess," Jepha says, with false humor.

Gerard coughs, and squares his shoulders again. "I won't remind you," he says, "I'm not planning on running into you again."

"You will. I mean, if you plan on actually sticking around this time. I kind of live here," Jepha says. He gives Gerard a nasty smile, then turns and taps his cigarette over the ashtray on the kitchen counter. "I kind of knew Frank first," he finishes.

"You did," Gerard admits, though he wants to spit something back. Jepha's back is tense; Gerard can see through the thin fabric that his muscles are tightly wound. Jepha's not the kind of guy to get in a fight, but if they even shove each other Jepha will tell Quinn. If Quinn finds out that Gerard's around, Gerard might die.

"I know," Gerard says, "I know I'm not someone who you'd want dating another one of your friends." Gerard presses his palms flat against the wall, spreading his fingers. Jepha doesn't move. "I remember what I did to Bert," he says, "I know it seems like I didn't care, but I do. I did. I just didn't--" He breaks off, frustrated, and slaps his palms against the wall. "I wasn't there," Gerard says, "I mean, I couldn't be where he was."

Jepha takes another long drag. When he finally turns around, his mouth is an ugly, crooked line. "Why don't you go home?" Jepha says, his voice rising. "Why can't you stay gone?"

"Jeph?" Bob leans around the doorway, looking concerned. His expression goes still and watchful when he sees Gerard against the wall. "Hey, Gerard," he says, cautiously. "Are you guys okay?"

"I'm going to go," Gerard says, and pushes himself away from the wall. "Can you tell Frank I had to go?"

"What--" Bob starts, and Jepha cuts in to say savagely, "Let him run."

"Fuck you," Gerard says, "Just fuck you." He pushes past Bob. Gerard hears him say, "Babe, you promised--", but he shoulders through the people grouped by the kitchen, wading through the crowd towards the door. Someone spills a drink on his arm, and someone else nearly burns him with their cigarette, but Gerard ignores it and keeps pushing forward.

When he finally gets out, the door bangs closed behind him, muting the sound of the party. The hallway is copper green under the fluorescent light. Gerard is trembling; it feels like his hands are made out of wires, and it takes him two tries to get the door to the building open. "Home," he says, out of nowhere, like the word has risen unthought out of his body. Gerard points his feet in the right direction, and he sets them in motion; they do the rest.


	5. Chapter 5

Two weeks go by.

Their new model is Catriona, a sweet, pretty redhead who flirts gently with Maja, and holds cheerful conversations even while she's posing. Gerard smokes half a carton of cigarettes, talks to Brian four times, talks to Mikey eight times, reorganizes his senior project, and does not drink.

And he doesn't call Frank.

Frank calls him, three times: once on the morning after the party, once the day after that, and once a week later. Gerard doesn't check his messages. The dial tone beeps stridently every time he picks up the phone, so Gerard holds it away from his ear when he first picks it up, before he's dialed the area code. It's not avoidance, not really; Gerard just needs time to think.

The fourth time Frank calls, Gerard picks up. "Hello," he says.

"So you didn't die," Frank says, his joking tone laced with anger.

This, Gerard thinks, this is the problem with not having caller ID. "Nope," he says, trying to keep his voice light. "But I am on the way out the door." Frank doesn't say anything. Gerard clears his throat. "I'll call you back tonight, though. Are you going to be around?"

"After eight," Frank says.

Gerard closes his eyes, visualizing his schedule. "Okay, yeah, I'll call you after eight. I think I'll be home by nine."

"Catch you later, I guess."

"Sure," Gerard says. Frank hangs up. Gerard stands with the phone to his ear until it starts to beep. He puts it down, hesitates, and picks it back up again and punches in the number for his mailbox.

 _You have -- three -- new messages._ Gerard hits the 1.

 _First new message_. "Hi, it's Frank. You left kind of quick last night, I was thinking you'd stay the night, but. I mean, not that I expected you would. I just-- well, I figure you don't like parties that much." A pause, a weird sound, and Frank's high, giddy laugh. "Okay, call me." Gerard presses 3 to delete the message.

 _Message erased. Second new message._ "Hi, Gerard." A long pause. "Haven't heard from you, so I'm a little worried. Hope you got home okay, and everything." Another long pause. Gerard presses his ear closer to the receiver, listening to the sound of music in the background. "If I did something wrong, you should tell me," Frank says, "I don't think I did, but just in case, okay? Okay, call me." Gerard pushes 3 again, and leaves his finger hovering over the button.

 _Message erased. Third new message._ "Fucking call me already, okay?" _End of new message. To delete this message--_ Gerard presses 3 one last time and hangs up the phone, his breath stalled out in his throat. He feels like he needs to piss, and like he needs to jerk off, and like he's hungry. His stomach is clenching like it does before he pukes. He has to go to class.

And Gerard goes, because that's what he does now, he doesn't avoid things like class and work and studio time. He walks to the subway, slides his MetroCard through the reader, and gets on the train. He gets off the subway and goes to his class. He gets on the subway and goes to work. He gets on the subway and goes to his studio. The whole time he expects that his stomach will settle down, but it never does.

Gerard had thought that maybe he was past this, past screwing up like a fucking useless prick, past letting down people who care about him, but apparently he isn't. When he lets himself into his studio, the sight of his canvases leaning against the wall make him want to cry, to throw up, to go buy a forty from the nearest bodega.

He leaves the studio and drags himself to a meeting.

"Hi, I'm Gerard," he says, after the leader of the meeting has invited the group to participate. "And I'm an alcoholic."

He tells them what happened, lays out what a jackass he was in glorious queer technicolor. "And I realized I was avoiding him," he finishes. "I didn't know I was, but I was."

Everyone's quiet, for a moment. A few rows back, a woman with long brown hair who he's seen around campus leans forward. She asks, "He left you alone at the party, huh?"

"He doesn't have to babysit me," Gerard says, stung, and a guy in his row nods.

"I'm not saying he does," she says. She leans her elbow on her knee and puts her chin in her hand. "But he didn't tell you that the ex-boyfriend's friend would be there, right? And then he got drunk."

"He didn't mean--"

"Of course he didn't," she interrupts. "Whatever. I'm saying, like, don't act like such a drama queen. Nothing is completely your fault, y'know?" She sits back in her chair. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip, just so he won't say something snide.

A little hipster boy turns around to ask, "So what are you doing about it now?"

Gerard says, "Oh. I'm calling him, tonight. I promised I'd call."

"Whoever's at fault, that's all you can do," the guy says, comfortably, and faces front again, making his chair squeak. "You can't ride yourself for the past, dude." Gerard slurps down a painful gulp of his coffee and nods, even though he feels like whining. _It's not that simple,_ he wants to say, but he holds it in.

Someone else speaks up, and they move past him and his problems. Gerard chews on the inside of his lip and drinks his coffee, thinking about what the girl said, turning it over and over again.

At the end of the meeting, Gerard turns back to her and offers his hand, stretching over the back of his chair. She looks startled, then takes it and gives it a little shake, a lopsided grin on her face. "It's cool," she says, "I'm just saying--"

"No, you're right," he says. "I'm a total drama queen." She shrugs and laughs a little, color rising in her cheeks. Gerard lets go of her hand. She bends down and shoulders her bag, sketching a little salute before she turns to go. Gerard tips one back and starts gathering his own things.

When he finally gets himself together and gets out of the building, Gerard's watch reads 8:49. He's got half an hour before Frank gets back to his apartment. Gerard buys himself a chocolate bar, a soda, and a _Marie Claire_ ; he reads the magazine on the train, snapping off squares of chocolate and pushing them under his tongue to melt. He keeps reading after he gets off at his stop, flipping quickly past a photo series of angular women in pale-beige outfits and browsing through an article on oppressed people in Haiti.

He's just gotten to the article on butt-blasting workouts and is contemplating the relative butt-benefits of the "squatting preacher curl" when he trips over his own feet. Gerard flails, the pages of his magazine flapping, and nearly takes a header into the sidewalk. He rights himself, takes a deep breath, and looks up to see that he's almost reached his apartment.

His stoop has Frank on it. "Hi," Frank says.

If Gerard were to start sprinting right now, he could probably get away. Frank's skinnier than him, but he's shorter, too, and he smokes nearly as much as Gerard does. And Gerard has desperation on his side, that has to be a major factor.

"Don't run," Frank jokes, like he can read Gerard's mind.

Gerard finally says, "Sure, right." His tongue feels thick in his mouth. He folds his magazine in half and sticks it under his armpit, patting his pockets to find his keys. "What are you doing here? I mean."

"I figured you might forget to call," Frank says.

Gerard purses his lips, embarrassed. "Right," he repeats. "Well, come on up, then."

Frank stands close behind Gerard while he gets the front door open and crowds behind him as they walk up the stairs. Gerard doesn't tell him to back off, though the closeness is making him feel self-conscious and awkward. He does stop abruptly at the top of the stairs; Frank bumps into him, and finally gives him some more room.

"Can I use your bathroom?" Frank asks, as soon as they're in.

Gerard shrugs, and says, "Yeah, sure," as an afterthought. "Do you want something to drink?" he asks, before Frank shuts the door. Frank leans back out.

"Tang."

"Okay."

Gerard takes the powder down from the cabinet. He unscrews the top and lays it upside down on the counter by the container. He measures two spoonfuls into a clean glass. He closes the container and puts it back in its spot in the cabinet. He gets a spoon from the drawer. He fills the glass with water from the tap. He swallows nervously, his throat clicking. He stirs the powder in, watching the grains of it swirling around in the glass. The spoon clinks against the glass. He puts the spoon down in the sink.

When Gerard turns away from the sink, Frank is leaning in the doorway to the kitchen, watching him. Gerard holds out the glass. "Tang," he offers. Frank doesn't return his weak smile. He walks forward and takes the glass, then leans against the counter by the cabinets. "What the fuck," Frank says conversationally, and takes a sip of his drink.

"I'm sorry," Gerard says. His hand is still in the shape of the glass; he wishes he hadn't put the container away, or that he hadn't moved so quickly through the steps of making it. He doesn't want to look at Frank. He says, "I didn't mean to avoid you."

"But you did," Frank says.

"I did."

"Why?" Frank's expression is sharp. Gerard thinks of birds, what it would be like to draw Frank with birds crouched around him, their beaks open, their eyes nearly as dark as his.

Gerard shakes his head to clear the image. _Later,_ he thinks, and then screws up his mouth when he realizes that there probably won't be a later. He says helplessly, "I-- it was stupid. I'm sorry."

Frank sets down his glass on the counter and folds his arms. "You already said that you're sorry."

"I don't know what else I should say," Gerard tries, "I mean, that's what I am, I'm sorry."

"Why did you do it, though?"

"I don't really know," Gerard says uncomfortably, thinking of the girl at the meeting.

"There has to be a reason." Frank sounds so reasonable, like every teacher Gerard has let down in his life. "I came all the way out here, I'd like to think that's worth something."

Gerard opens his mouth to offer him an explanation, but nothing comes. He shuts his mouth instead, and shrugs. Frank doesn't give him anything else, and finally Gerard says, "So are we breaking up?"

"What?"

"I don't-- I'm sorry."

"Fucking Jesus Christ, Gerard." Frank's voice isn't so reasonable anymore. "Will you fucking stop apologizing?"

"I," Gerard starts, and then stops himself, embarrassed. "I don't know what you want me to do."

"Fight with me!" Frank sticks his chin out, his arms still folded. "I want you to fucking fight with me. And to stop fucking apologizing. I get it, you're sorry."

Gerard opens his mouth again, feeling awkward and unsure. "You want me to say I didn't avoid you?" He turns around, facing the sink, curling his palms around the edge of it. Frank makes a strangled, angry sound, and Gerard finishes, "Maybe you should just get the fuck out of my apartment," feeling a weird sort of relief at saying it.

Then he gasps, arching like he can get away from the water that's just splashed down the length of his back. "Fuck!" he shouts, and whirls around.

Frank is holding his now-empty glass. His expression is defiant. "Don't just dick out on me like that," he says.

Gerard spits, "I said I was fucking sorry," and Frank turns back to the cabinets, scrabbling around and yanking out the ancient box of baking soda Gerard keeps on the bottom shelf. Gerard tries, "What--" but Frank is already pulling open the top. He shakes the box at Gerard, sending out a cloud of white dust. Gerard shrieks and waves his arms like he can fend it off. "Fuck, Frank, you--"

"Fight with me," Frank yells, and turns back to the cabinet. Gerard dives for the fridge, opening the door and ducking behind it. He can hear the sink running, and he casts about wildly for something else to defend himself with.

He stands up to reach for the pan he keeps on top of the fridge just as an arc of water comes over the fridge door. It hits him full in the face. Gerard opens his eyes just long enough that whatever Frank throws after that gets in his eyes; he slams them shut again and curses, trying to wipe his face on his shirt and groping blindly for something to throw back at Frank.

He doesn't really mean to throw an egg. Or, he means to, but he's not completely clear on how the egg gets from the fridge door to his hand to Frank's chest. He's too focused on the way his eyes are watering, and on the sound of Frank shoving stuff around in the cabinets.

The egg splits open when it hits Frank -- Gerard must have thrown it pretty hard -- and Frank throws his arms up a second too late. He looks down at the albumen oozing down the fabric of his t-shirt, and then looks up at Gerard. He's got an expression on his face like a wet cat's. It would be funny, if Gerard weren't actually a little scared. "I'm a _vegan_ , you _fuck_ ," Frank says.

"Learn something new every day," Gerard snipes back, "But I don't give a shit." He scrabbles for the eggs again when Frank lunges back into the cupboards. Gerard manages to hit Frank with one more egg before Frank is on him, clinging to him in spite of Gerard's efforts to push him off. Frank sticks a container of honey down the back of Gerard's shirt and squeezes hard, squirting honey all the way down his spine and up one side of his neck.

Gerard yelps. He picks up another egg and squashes it against Frank's face, mashing the shell against his cheek and smearing the yolk back into his hair. Frank actually starts to hiss. Gerard barks out a strangled laugh that slides into a grunt when Frank starts squirting more honey out, this time on Gerard's hair.

When Gerard manages to throw Frank off again, the honey bottle falls out of Frank's hand and goes skittering across the floor. Frank scrambles back to the cabinets, keeping his eyes on Gerard as he feels around for something else to throw.

Gerard goes for the grape jelly. His fingers slip off the top at first, but he manages to get it open just as Frank comes back around. Gerard scoops out three fingers' worth of jelly and palms it down the front of Frank's shirt, closing his eyes against the spurts of soy sauce that Frank is shaking out over his hair. "Fuck!" Gerard yelps, when a drop of it works into the corner of his eye. He shoves Frank again, and pushes hard enough that Frank skids into the counter. Frank's hip makes a loud sound against the edge of the counter, and Frank curses, his hands going automatically to his hip.

Gerard sees the opportunity, and he takes it. Frank's eyes are closed, and he's holding his hip, unprepared. Gerard has enough time to grab the milk out of the fridge door, rip off the plastic top, and upturn it over Frank's head.

It glugs quietly as it drains out. The room seems to pause suddenly. Gerard drops his arm back to his side, and then drops the empty jug aside. It bounces when it hits the floor, making thin hollow sounds against the linoleum.

Frank is just standing there, still. He's dripping wet, and his chest is heaving. "I--" Gerard starts, but he doesn't get a chance to finish the sentence. Frank drops his shoulder and barrels into him, and Gerard goes down flailing, only just missing hitting his head on the wall.

Frank lands right on Gerard, his pointy shoulder digging into the soft spot the meeting point of Gerard's ribs. He sits up right away, his face stormy, and fists his hands in Gerard's t-shirt. Gerard want to defend himself, but he can't. He lies there. He's gasping for breath, but he's only getting in a tiny, thin wheeze. His chest won't work, and he wonders if maybe he broke something when he fell.

Frank's face clears, a little, and he says, "Put your arms up." Gerard lifts his arms, but it doesn't have any effect. "Don't try so hard," Frank says, and sits back on his heels. "The air'll come back, I promise."

"Easy--" Gerard tries, but his throat is too tight. It feels like all of his muscles locked down at once, and all he's got left is his skeleton and his lungs, trying to force them to work again. He holds his hands over his head and concentrates on not trying so hard. It helps a little. "Easy for you to say," he says in a thin voice, when he's managed to drag in a breath.

Frank snorts. "I think I would win the Shitty Lungs Olympics," he says, and gets up, groaning. "But nice try." Gerard opens his eyes and watches Frank move around his kitchen. Frank looks around at the food-splattered floor, the multi-colored mess that drips off the cabinets and has coated the floor, and sighs. He sits back down, right in one of the puddles of milk, and leans back against a cabinet door that's spattered with egg.

Gerard finally pushes himself up, wheezing weakly again with the effort. He swings the fridge door shut, elbowing it closed, and puts his back up against the door. He and Frank sit there in silence. There's honey sliding down the crack of Gerard's ass, but he doesn't move.

"People don't do this," Frank says. Gerard looks up. They meet each other's eyes for a long moment. Neither of them say anything. "People don't fight like this," Frank finally clarifies. "Not when they first start out together."

"People don't fight like this ever," Gerard corrects him. Frank looks up, but he doesn't smile. "How much worse can it get?" Gerard tries, but all Frank does is give a dry chuckle and look away. Gerard draws his knees up, ignoring the way his pants squelch against his t-shirt.

He should memorize how Frank looks right now, if Frank's going to leave him. Even if this is all going to go to shit somehow, Gerard still thinks that he'll want this image afterwards, that this is what he'll want always floating back to the top of his mind. He wants Frank, leaning against the sink with his legs splayed out in front of him, covered in milk and eggs and jelly; he wants this branded in his mind, if this is the end.

Gerard closes his eyes. He takes a breath, shaky but full. He says, "You're a person, right?"

Gerard hears the click of Frank's lighter. "Yeah," Frank says, finally, "Yeah, I'm a person."

"And I'm a person," Gerard says, and opens his eyes. "So we're people, right?" Frank is looking at him. His cigarette is dangling laxly between his lips, sending up tendrils of smoke.

One corner of Frank's mouth finally tugs up. "Sure. Two persons make a people."

"So people do." Gerard clears his throat, forcing it not to close up again. "People do fight like this, in the beginning of their relationship."

At first Gerard thinks that Frank is just going to stare at him. He thinks that he's screwed up, that Frank will leave, and he wasted his chance to remember Frank perfectly. But Frank's mouth starts to twitch up at both corners, enough that he has to take his cigarette out of his mouth. His lips stretch across his face and then, though he ducks his head, Gerard sees the glint of his teeth. Gerard laughs, more from relief than anything else.

Frank laughs, too, shaking his head and taking a slow drag on his cigarette. "All right," he says, "So Frank and Gerard are people."

"Better than Soylent Green," Gerard tells him, making him snort. "We're less fattening."

"Low cal options for your cannibal lifestyle," Frank says. He moves, folding over and crawling awkwardly across the kitchen floor. He pushes Gerard's knees apart and leans in between them, up against Gerard's chest. Gerard takes Frank's cigarette out of his mouth, takes a short drag, and sticks it back in between Frank's lips. "Thanks," Frank says. Gerard doesn't know whether Frank is saying it for the cigarette or for saving their relationship, so he just says "My pleasure."

They lie there while Frank smokes, the both of them quiet. The seat of Gerard's jeans are sticking to his ass, and his shirt is clinging in patches to his torso, but Frank is warm. It feels all right. When he's finished his cigarette, Frank leans over and puts it out in a brown puddle next to them. Gerard snorts, and Frank starts to giggle. "I threw Tang at you," he gets out, and starts to really laugh.

"'I'm a fucking _vegan_ ,'" Gerard whines, and Frank bursts into laughter again. "My fucking kitchen's a mess, you asshole. And my chest still hurts."

"It was worth it," Frank says, and rubs his egg-smeared face against what was once Gerard's last semi-clean t-shirt. "'I'm sorry, you're right, I'm sorry, maybe you should leave,'" he squeaks.

"Your falsetto sucks," Gerard says.

"Eat egg." Frank flicks his hair, smacking Gerard on the cheek, and Gerard shoves at his shoulder.

"I do," he giggles, "And then I make out with you. With eggy tongue." Frank switches to rubbing his tongue on the arm of Gerard's t-shirt, and Gerard really loses it.

They sit there for a long time. Gerard can't stop giggling, but he's better off than Frank. Frank is still belly laughing, even with his face pressed up against Gerard's bicep. When he's finally laughed himself out, Gerard pushes his hand through Frank's matted and slick hair. "I'm sorry," he says. When Frank opens his mouth, he continues, "I'm not going to take on all of it, you asshole. But I'm sorry for freaking out and avoiding you."

Frank pushes himself up a few inches, so that he can turn and meet Gerard's eyes. "I thought we had already broken up," he tells Gerard seriously. Gerard tightens his hand in Frank's hair without thinking, and Frank winces. Gerard makes an apologetic noise and disentangles his hand. "You hadn't called me back. And I'd heard what you did to Bert, and I thought." He ducks his head. "I thought you were doing it again."

Gerard can feel the color rush out of his face. He looks away, coughs into his fist, and takes a second to look out of the kitchen window. "What I did to Bert--" he starts.

"I'm sorry," Frank says, "I know it's, like, rumor and everything."

"If you heard it from Quinn, the only untrue thing you heard was that I'm a heartless bitch who sucks in bed," Gerard says quickly, meeting his eyes again. He pauses, and continues, "But I was only three weeks sober when I broke up with Bert. I was still sick, okay?"

"Okay," Frank says. Gerard cups Frank's chin in his hands.

"I was a dick to him, but I was still sick," Gerard says. He takes a deep breath. "I thought I wasn't safe, being into boys. I was trying really hard to be normal, like. As normal as I could be."

"You're not sick now?" Frank says, his face serious.

"I avoided you, didn't I?" Gerard says mirthlessly, and Frank smirks. "But I'm not as sick as I was. I'm-- Frank, I'm set on you. As set as I can get." It's a terrifying declaration. Frank just looks at him. Gerard gulps against his sudden nausea, and continues, "I'm going to screw up again, you know I am. But I promise, if I don't want to do this anymore, I'll tell you."

"Pinky swear," Frank says, and Gerard takes one hand away from his chin to lock pinkies with him. "Okay," Frank finishes. "What did I do wrong?"

Gerard laughs. "You really want to get into that?"

"Hey, bullshit," Frank says. "This is what I meant, like. I know I did something wrong if you're avoiding me. I can't go and fix it if I don't know what's wrong."

"Yeah, I guess you can't," Gerard says. He pauses, sorting through it, trying to put it in words that aren't as harsh as his first impulse. "I guess the main thing is that. I mean. That was the first drinking party I went to since I got sober. It was scary."

"Yeah," Frank says. "I can get that."

Gerard takes a deep breath, and then lets it out. "You didn't tell me Jepha was going to be there, or that Bob wasn't going to talk to me--"

"I didn't know about that," Frank interrupts. "About Bob. I should have warned you about Jepha, right, but--"

"Well, you fucking ignored me," Gerard snaps, "So I found out that he was there on my own."

Frank's mouth tightens into a thin line. When it relaxes, all he says is, "Okay."

"And--" Gerard says. Frank inhales, and Gerard hurries to say, "This is the last thing."

Frank says, "Maybe I didn't want to get into this, you're right," but he's half-smiling.

"It's an easy one," Gerard reassures him. "I mean, I'm okay with you drinking, I really am. I promise." Frank lets out his breath in a rush. "I just-- it's hard for me to deal with people-- people who are important to me, when they're drunk. I'm really judgmental about it. And when you kissed me, well."

"I tasted like beer," Frank finishes for him.

"Yeah."

Frank presses closer, putting his arms around Gerard's middle and squeezing him tight. They make a sticky, wet sound against one another, but all Frank says is, "Fuck, Gerard, I'm sorry. I feel like a shithead now."

"It's okay," Gerard says. He's laughing again, mostly out of relief. "It's really okay. Don't be lame about it."

"That's your job," Frank murmurs. Gerard tries to get his hand into the puddle near them so he can splash it on Frank's face. Frank manages to get his hands around Gerard's arm and hauls it back against Gerard's side. "No you don't," he says, and bites Gerard right above his nipple. Gerard sucks in a breath. "Oh, really?" Frank says, and bites again, a little gentler.

"Stop that," Gerard says breathlessly.

"You're right," Frank says, and starts to lever himself up. Gerard protests, and Frank stops to grin at him. "We're cleaning first. You are not getting roaches again."

"It'll be fine," Gerard says, "They're not so bad."

Frank screws up his face. "Never say that to me. Not ever again. I'm deleting that from my memory. We're cleaning."

Gerard grumbles, but he takes Frank's hand when he offers it and pushes himself up to his feet. Frank peels off his shirt, and Gerard is suddenly happier that he got up. "Whoa."

"Take off your shirt," Frank says, unbuttoning his jeans. "And your pants."

"I thought we were cleaning."

"We are. It's counter-productive to clean in wet clothes, though, right?" Frank pulls off his jeans, prying off his shoes when he gets to the bottom. Gerard watches him leave the kitchen, eyes trained on the way Frank's wet underwear clings to his ass. "Shirt off, Gerard," Frank says over his shoulder. Gerard grimaces, but after a couple of hesitations he pulls it off, wipes his face off with it, and then starts working on his jeans. He's down to his sticky boxer briefs when Frank comes back in. Frank stops in the doorway.

"What?" Gerard snaps, pushing back his hair. Frank's eyes are locked on his belly, and Gerard hunches down to cover it.

Frank says, "You're so fucking hot, you know that?"

"Shut up."

Frank holds out his hands. "Give me your clothes, I'll put them on the giant fucking mountain of dirty laundry." Gerard hands them over, and Frank goes out the door again.

Gerard hunkers down and starts getting the paper towels and the cleaning supplies out from the cabinet under the sink. "Holy shit," Frank says, when he comes back in. "Wait, how does a filthy pig like you have so much cleaning stuff?" He stoops and picks up one of the sprays. "I've wanted Scrubbing Bubbles for forever."

"My mom," Gerard says glumly. "She thinks that if she gives me cleaning supplies, I'll actually clean." Frank giggles. "You two would get along."

"I bet we would. Man, Scrubbing Bubbles." Frank puts the spray bottle, then looks around at the kitchen. "All right, tell me you have a mop."

"I have a mop," Gerard tells him, and goes to get it.

It's actually kind of fun, cleaning like this, even though Gerard's kind of self-conscious about being so naked. Frank chatters nonstop about comic books and clothes and hair and cleaning products -- he apparently has a thing for Clorox, too - and he's almost naked, too. It's like a sexy maid service. Sort of. A maid service that expects him to do most of the work, and bitches him out whenever he stares for too long at its ass.

"Focus, Gerard," Frank says sternly, and then ruins it by grinning. "I'll blow you after we're done." Gerard redoubles his efforts to scrub off the last sticky spot on the baseboards, and Frank laughs.

It takes them longer than Gerard thinks it should to get the place clean, mostly because Frank won't settle for good-enough. He even makes Gerard put out roach poison, though Gerard hasn't seen them in a while. "It's cleaner than before we started throwing stuff," Gerard whines. Frank puts his hands on his hips and surveys the kitchen, looking like a demented Martha Stewart.

"Okay," he says finally, and Gerard gives a tired shout of joy. "Shut up, you'll thank me when you don't have bugs. Now c'mere," Frank says, and Gerard goes. Frank turns Gerard around and backs him out of the kitchen until his back hits the wall in the hallway. Gerard's skin makes a sticky sound against the paint, and Frank pulls back.

"I'll clean it later," Gerard promises, and kisses him. Frank mumbles something happy against Gerard's mouth. They press together, their skin sticking and skidding. Gerard's just begun to get into the rhythm of making out when Frank pulls away and drops to his knees. Gerard blinks down at him.

Frank smiles. "Blowing you, remember?"

"Oh my god, now?"

Frank stops, his hands stilling on Gerard's thighs. "What?"

"I'm all-- I didn't trim, or anything," Gerard says, feeling his face flush, "And we didn't shower, I'll taste like Tang." Frank just makes a soft, meaningless noise and licks Gerard's stomach. "I. Okay," Gerard says, giving in easily. He slumps back against the wall, tilting his hips forward.

Frank glances back up at him, then leans forward and rests his mouth over the front of Gerard's underwear. He breathes out, his breath searing hot through the damp fabric, and Gerard says, "Maybe I should sit?"

"No," Frank says, not lifting his mouth away. He raises his eyes to Gerard's face and tilts his head back a fraction so that he can peel down the waistband of Gerard's underwear; Gerard makes a face at his underwear sticking to his ass, but then his cock grazes Frank's cheek, and he can feel his face go slack again. "I like it like this," Frank says against the side of his cock, and then licks up his shaft, then over the head. "Okay if I'm sloppy?"

"Fuck," Gerard answers. Frank looks like a motherfucking porno, kneeling there wet and dirty and nearly-naked, his wet, pink lips sliding down over Gerard's cock. He doesn't go down all the way, but it's a near thing. He has his hands hooked in the fabric of Gerard's underwear, where they're stretched around Gerard's thighs, but when he starts to drag his mouth back up, he moves one of his hands up to wrap around the shaft of Gerard's cock.

Gerard breathes out a shaky breath and touches Frank's cheek. Frank turns his head towards Gerard's hand, pushing the head of Gerard's cock against the inside of his cheek. Gerard can feel it on his cock and under his fingers, all at once. "I am so, so glad I'm sober for this," Gerard says stupidly, and Frank pulls off to smile at him.

"Me too," he says simply, and goes back down again.

He's kind of slow about it, taking his time with his fist and his mouth. Gerard forces his hips to keep still, and revels in the slow wash of pleasure, the wet, slippery stroke of Frank's tongue and throat. Frank's eyes are closed, and he keeps making these tiny noises that Gerard can't decipher, kind of like whimpers. Gerard thinks they're good noises, but after a while he manages to stutter out, "If your jaw hurts--" Frank slides back, slowly, and looks up at him.

"I'm good," he says, voice thick. "Hey, can you talk to me?"

Gerard touches his cheek again, rubbing the skin. "About what?"

"About what you like," Frank murmurs.

"Fuck, Frank," Gerard says helplessly. Frank just waits, his hand tight around the base of Gerard's cock, his eyes on Gerard's face. "Fuck," Gerard says again. "Look at me, while you're--" He stops, feeling awkward, and Frank smiles.

"While I'm sucking your cock," he says. Gerard swallows hard, and nods. "Keep talking, okay?"

He slides his mouth over the head of Gerard's cock, his eyes still fixed on Gerard's face. Gerard has to open his mouth just to pant for air. "Go down as far as you can," Gerard offers finally, and Frank does it. His lips meet his curled fingers, and he starts to uncurl his hand as he moves further down. "You're so fucking hot," Gerard tells him, feeling weird and vulnerable. "It's like your mouth-- your lips--" Gerard digs his nails into the wall. "You make me think that blowjobs are natural, like, that they should happen, because your mouth is just-- Frank, fuck, it's gorgeous." Frank sucks gently when Gerard finally gets all of the words out, and he presses down further on Gerard's cock. Gerard shudders. "Perfect," he says, the word rolling out of his mouth.

Frank only breaks eye contact when his nose brushes against Gerard's belly. He swallows, once, and Gerard drags in a breath to say, "You can move back." Frank meets his eyes again as he slides back. Gerard's cock is slick with Frank's spit, but Frank's lips still drag a little. "Touch-- put your hand on my balls," Gerard stutters out, feeling a flush creeping up his face.

Frank curls one hand back around Gerard's cock, and then he brings the other up to cup Gerard's balls. His rough nails scrape lightly against the skin back behind them. Gerard feels like all of the hair on his body stands up, and he keens, quietly. "Fuck," he says, and pushes his hand into Frank's dirty mop of hair. His hand slides back, coming to rest in the abrupt curve where Frank's spine meets his skull. "I'm just--" Gerard starts, and Frank hums. Gerard bucks forward, his hips thrusting eager and off-tempo into Frank's fist and mouth, and then he's coming.

Gerard pats weakly at Frank's chin when he's done. He sags back against the wall, finally gives in to his trembling legs, and sinks down to the floor. He's suddenly exhausted. He just wants to lie there, contemplating the way all of his skin humming in time with his heart, how he can feel his pulse thudding in his cheeks, in his cock, in the soles of his feet. Gerard pries open his eyes, and watches Frank spit into his hand and wrap his hand around his cock.

Frank moans appreciatively, his mouth falling open around the sound. He's still kneeling, but he's slumped back, held up by his other hand on the floor behind himself. His eyes are closed. His hair is tangled and sticking to his cheek, just below his right eye. He looks like a magazine spread, one of the glossy, high-class porn mags that have concepts behind the pictorials.

"This is going in my spank bank," Gerard says. He moves onto his stomach and puts his palms on the floor. He should really go help Frank out.

Frank laughs breathlessly. "Spank bank, huh?"

"Yeah." Gerard finally pushes himself up onto his knees. He shifts forward, slides his hands up over Frank's bent knees, over the damp skin of his thighs, and rests them on either hip. Frank breathes out a shaky breath and tosses his hair back off of his face in a restless gesture.

After a moment Gerard asks, "Actually, you know the movie theater by my house?" Frank's eyes open a sliver, and he nods. "There's an alleyway next to it, that we pass by when we're walking back here."

"Right," Frank pants, and breathes a laugh again.

"I always get this urge to pull you into that alley," Gerard tells him. "It's pretty out of the way. I could push you up against the wall, go down on my knees, and suck you off." Frank's eyes go wide and slam shut again. He grunts, quietly, and his strokes speed up.

Gerard rubs his thumbs over Frank's skin. He watches the space between Frank's eyebrows creasing and relaxing in time with the hunch of his hips. "I think about that," he says, "sometimes, when I'm jerking off. What I'd have to do to get you to fuck my mouth." Frank gasps, and Gerard continues, "I mean, you'd have to, wouldn't you? You'd have to use my mouth. Because anyone could find us, if they just looked--"

"Fuck," Frank says, more a guttural noise than a word, and slams his hips up into his hand. His hips twitch under Gerard's hands, and then go still and tense as he comes. Gerard watches his cock twitch in his hand, watches his come fall on his belly.

Frank keeps his hand curled around his cock after he's done. He's collapsed back, only shifting his legs slightly, and he's not moving. His eyes are closed; it looks like he's gone to sleep.

"Frank," Gerard says, and Frank's eyelids flutter. Gerard braces himself on the floor on either side of Frank's hips and leans forward. Frank opens one eye, and then shuts it again.

"If you're hard again, you're just going to have to rub it out on my leg," he says. Gerard snickers, lifting one hand to pat at his hip.

"Not yet," Gerard says. "But thanks for the offer." He dips his head down, breathing in the scent of food and cleaning products and sex and sweat on Frank's skin, and starts licking up the come off of Frank's belly.

"Whoa," Frank says, less loudly than he might have if he hadn't just gotten off. His hand comes up and cups the side of Gerard's head. "That's. You are so fucking gross."

Gerard stops. "You always swallow," he says, and then goes back to dragging his tongue up over Frank's belly.

"Yeah, so I don't have to taste it," Frank counters. "If you spit, you've got to hold it in your mouth."

"Mmm," Gerard says. Frank's come is gone; he sets his teeth in the flesh under one of Frank's ribs and worries it gently until Frank giggles. "I should start spitting, then. I love it."

Frank says, "Fucking gross," and pulls his hair. Gerard pushes himself up a little further and kisses Frank, ignoring his unhappy squeak.

"Semen, yum," Gerard whispers, when he pulls away, and Frank says, "Okay, that's it, get off me. I'm taking a shower and soaping my mouth." He pushes Gerard until Gerard rolls off of him, and gets up. "You're disgusting," Frank informs him.

"Yup."

"Ugh." Frank throws up his hands in defeat and goes into the bathroom. Gerard chuckles and laces his fingers over his chest. Even after Frank shuts the bathroom door, Gerard can hear the sounds of Frank muttering irritably to himself.

The shower goes on, drowning out the sound of Frank's voice, and Gerard finally gets up. He goes and digs a pair of pajama pants out of the clothes pile by his bed, puts them on, and then gets himself a cup of coffee.

When it becomes apparent that Frank intends to use up all the hot water in the building, Gerard sits down with his sketchbook and starts doodling. He starts with Frank's body, familiar enough by now that he can draw certain sections of it from memory, and then drifts into self-portraiture. When Frank finally gets out of the shower, he's got a halfway decent mock-up for his next senior show panel.

"What're you drawing?" Frank says. Gerard looks up. One of Gerard's threadbare towels is wrapped around his hips, and he has Gerard's old Batman mug in one of his hands. He's pasty and skinny and splotched with tattoos, and he's all Gerard's. Gerard grins at him.

"Myself," Gerard says.

"Is it for school?"

"Yeah, my senior project," Gerard says. Frank comes over and lowers himself to the mattress, holding his mug carefully. Gerard takes it from him while he gets himself situated, and steals a sip as a reward.

"What is it?"

Gerard looks down at the sketch, feeling strangely shy. "It's kind of narcissistic."

Frank snorts. "It's art, it's supposed to be."

"I guess." Gerard doodles a ludicrous handlebar mustache on the upper lip of his sketch. "It's all pictures of me, but they're, like, in the process of drawing themselves." He stops, glances over at Frank, and looks back down at the sketchbook. "It's kind of obvious, right?"

"Not obvious enough, man, I don't get it. Explain it to me," Frank says.

"It's like." Gerard flips back through the pages, tipping them up so Frank won't be able to see how often he features on the pages. Gerard finds the piece he's looking for and flips the book open, turning it to face Frank.

Gerard's pretty proud of this one; it's the piece that started the whole idea in his head. "So I was awake one night, couldn't sleep, and I had this idea," he says, smoothing the page down with the tips of his fingers. "I was the only model I had on hand at the time, so." In the portrait, his face is in progress of being drawn; some of the bone structure is still visible, a little of the musculature sketched in over that. The portrait's hand is raised, clutching a pencil, and it's in the process of filling in a shadow under one eye.

"This is pretty cool," Frank says, taking the book from Gerard and putting it on his own lap. "I like this."

"Thanks. It's a whole mixed media series," Gerard says.

"So how's it obvious?" Frank looks up.

Gerard thinks at first that he's just being nice, but Frank keeps looking at him steadily, waiting for an answer. "Huh. I mean, okay, well. I made it through three years of art school." He touches the chin of the portrait. "Drunk, I mean. Three years of it."

"How'd you do that?" Frank asks.

"Sometimes I was sober when I did the work," Gerard says. "Most days I was, anyway. But after I finished something, I was always so _sad_. Like I had let myself down, because it was never as good as it could be. And like," he stops and gestures, frustrated with the lack of words. "I had something leave my life, when I finished a piece I cared about. I would feel so sad, and so sorry for myself. And then I'd get drunk."

"I'm just impressed you went back to school after you got sober," Frank says, and Gerard laughs.

"Yeah, I think that's just stubbornness." He stares at the drawing, at the glare on his portrait's face. "I think I just wanted to prove I could do it. Anyway, I liked that these were still in progress, because it meant I didn't have to leave them behind. I could pretend that they'd never be finished."

Frank looks down at the sketch again, and says, "See, that isn't what I got."

"No?"

"You said this was a whole series, right?" Frank asks. Gerard nods, and Frank says, "I guess it's because I'm a model." He taps his finger on the bridge of the portrait's nose, then reaches over to do the same to Gerard. "Hand mirror, meet Kathy Bates."

"Oh." Gerard stares down at the portrait. "I guess. Shit." He sees for the first time how weary and angry this first portrait looks. The bags under the fleshed-out eye is deep and pouchy, and his hair is a wild, over-detailed tangle. "Wait a sec," Gerard says, and takes the sketchbook back. He flips rapidly through the pages, up to tonight's sketch, and holds the intervening pages up so that he can look between them. "Fuck, you asshole."

"What?" Frank is grinning, though. "Just because I'm a better art critic than you, you get all snippy."

The most recent portrait is staring dead ahead, his mouth a slightly crooked line. There's no exposed bone, no sinew. It's the normal face of a self-portrait. But somehow he looks hopeful, maybe even happy. The pencil is poised at the crooked side of his mouth, quirking it just slightly. "How'd you know?" Gerard asks.

"Do you really want to know?"

"Yeah," Gerard says, although he says it tentatively. "That sounds ominous."

"The picture by the curtain," Frank says. Gerard covers his eyes with his hand, and Frank laughs. "See, I knew you'd be embarrassed, but. You're the most emotional artist I've ever met."

"Shut up," Gerard moans.

"No," Frank says, implacably. "That drawing of me is the hottest thing I've ever seen. I knew I had to fuck you when I saw it."

"When did you see it?"

"The first time I modeled here," Frank says, completely unconcerned by Gerard's lameness.

"I hate you so much," Gerard says, but he can't get the grin off of his face. "Fucking asshole." He pushes on Frank's shoulder; Frank only holds him off long enough to move his coffee and the sketchbook off the bed, and then he lets Gerard push him down and wrap around him. "So you knew I was a good hand mirror from that?"

"I knew you were a warped hand mirror from that," Frank says. Gerard digs his fingers into Frank's side, and Frank yelps and bats at him until he stops. "It's just that you're so there," Frank says, "You're so in yourself, y'know? So I knew however you'd see yourself had to change with how you were feeling."

"Ugh," Gerard says. It feels like he's radiating heat, like the pleasure he's getting from Frank's words is an hot iron in his chest. "Come meet my sponsor," he says, impetuously; it's the only thing he can think of to give Frank off of the top of his head. He closes his eyes and presses his face against Frank's shoulder. "You don't have to, but he wants to meet you. He's kind of a mama bird about me."

"I wonder why," Frank says dryly. He considers, and offers, "Take a shower, and I'll take off a whole day to meet him."

"But then I have to get up," Gerard whines. Frank rolls his eyes and shoves him off the mattress. Gerard falls against the overfull ashtray by his bed, coating his sticky body in cigarette ashes, and after that even he has to concede defeat. "I hate you," he tells Frank again before he goes into the bathroom, and they grin at each other like fools.


	6. Chapter 6

Frank manages to get a Friday off. Brian is free to grab coffee at noon. Gerard wakes up in a cold sweat, and spends most of his morning worrying. He's doesn't have any classes on Fridays, and he's switched shifts at the store with someone else. When he tries to do homework, he only produces confused doodles. He ends up smoking too many cigarettes and reading comics instead of doing anything remotely productive.

When it's finally time to leave, Gerard heads downstairs to find Frank sitting on the front stoop of his building. Frank's accepting his lighter back from the creepy guy who's always trying to bum cigarettes off of Gerard. "Thanks, man," creepy guy says.

"No problem," Frank says, "I'll catch you later."

The guy shambles off, and Frank stands up and dusts off the ass of his jeans. He looks good. He looks really good. Gerard doesn't think about it; he just dips his head and brushes a kiss against Frank's mouth. The grin he gets is worth it.

"Did you give him a cigarette?" Gerard asks, still close to Frank.

"Who, Dave?" Frank asks, gesturing after the creepy dude. Gerard laughs. "What?"

"Of course you know his name," Gerard teases, and pats the side of Frank's face. They start down the stairs, and Gerard tugs Frank in the direction of the coffee shop. "Did you tell him your life story?"

"Just that I was waiting for my boyfriend to come down," Frank says. Gerard almost takes a header over a crack in the sidewalk.

"What?"

"What?"

"You're a unicorn, aren't you?" Gerard asks, but he already knows the answer. "You are, you're a unicorn. How did you just out yourself to Dave the creepy cigarette dude?"

Frank looks at him for a long moment. Gerard stumbles again, and he has to look away to pay attention to the sidewalk. "I like to give people the chance to be jerks, y'know," Frank says evenly. "You can't just assume they're assholes."

Gerard stops in his tracks. Frank falters to a stop, and then comes back to stand next to him.

Gerard grabs his face and kisses him, hard, smashing their lips together. He ignores the people walking by them on the street, tunes out their stares and mutters. He pulls back after a moment, maybe an inch away, and says, "I know we're going to get over each other eventually--"

"Why are you so dead set on that?" Frank interrupts, and Gerard shakes his head.

"Let me be a pessimist," he says, and rushes on so he won't lose his momentum. "I know we're going to break up someday, but right now I am so in love with you that I'm going to explode."

"Sounds messy," Frank says, but he slides his arms around Gerard's waist and leans against him, resting the weight of his chin in Gerard's hands. "I love you, too," he murmurs, and Gerard reels like he's taken a punch to the gut.

Gerard states firmly, "This can only lead to disaster," just so the universe knows that he knows. "Disaster, heartbreak, and death," he adds. It doesn't kill the happiness he feels curling in his stomach, but it will have to do. He kisses Frank one more time, and then backs away. He slides his sunglasses down off of the top of his head and onto his nose. "C'mon," he says, "Don't make us late."

Frank snorts and flips Gerard off, but he follows. "Is there anything I should know?" he asks, when they're waiting at the corner for the light to change.

Gerard thinks for a long moment. "I mean, most of it's obvious. Like, don't drink alcohol or shoot up at the table, y'know?"

"Okay. I think can do that."

"Smoking cigarettes is okay. You drink your coffee black, he'll respect that. He's probably going to make fun of your band and your hair and maybe your clothes and probably your job, but that just means he likes you. It's okay if you punch someone, but only if they were mean to an old lady or a black guy or a kid or something."

"You think we're going to have a fistfight in the middle of coffee?" Frank asks, his forehead wrinkling, and then waves his hand when Gerard opens his mouth. "Never mind, you're probably right, keep going."

Gerard tries to think of all the things he worried about when he first got to know Brian. "Really, when he makes fun of you, he doesn't mean it. I mean, he means it. But he doesn't mean it for real."

"Okay," Frank says, "Is this the place?" Gerard nods, and tries not to squeak. Brian is leaning against the outside of the coffee shop, smoking a cigarette like he does when someone's pissed him off.

"So you're Frank," Brian says, when they walk up.

"Also don't be an oppressor," Gerard says in a rush, and Frank says, "What?"

Brian cracks a smile at that, and Gerard feels slightly better. "Are you trying to give him a primer on me?"

"No," Gerard says, just as Frank says, "Yes." Brian shoots Gerard a look that he can't read, and then holds out his hand for Frank to shake.

"I'm an easy guy to get along with," Brian says.

"So we're starting off with lies, then," Frank says, "I'm the Queen Margaret." He shakes Brian's hand, and Gerard makes a noise like he's having an aneurysm. Brian just quirks his mouth.

"So you're Gerard's type," he says, "Good to know. Gerard, can you go walk around the block for a while?"

"But--" Gerard halts. He wasn't expecting this.

"We just should talk privately," Brian says. Frank looks at him, overconfident, unaware of the fact that he's about to die.

"No," Gerard says, and Brian blinks. "No, I'm going to stay."

"It's okay--" Frank starts.

"I know," Gerard says, and adds "I know you'll be okay," when Frank looks like he's going to protest again.

"Okay." Frank shrugs.

"I'll stay at another table, where I can't hear you," Gerard says to Brian, and then bites his lip. "Please?"

"All right," Brian says slowly. He's looking at Frank. Gerard isn't sure what Brian's seeing, but he really, really hopes that it's good.

When Brian holds open the door to the coffee shop, Gerard lets Frank in ahead of him, and he stays in between them while they all order their coffee. He can't be a buffer forever, though; when they pick up their coffees, Brian points at a nearby table, and Gerard goes.

He sits at a table where he can look at them, though. Gerard sips his latte, watching carefully as they settle into chairs and square off against one another. Frank's reining in his legs more than he usually does, but he's fidgeting like normal, drumming his fingers on the table and jiggling one knee. Brian's lips are twitching like he already needs another cigarette. It's a hippy-dippy no-smoking kind of place. Gerard hopes that Brian won't flip out on Frank just because he's having a nic fit.

Gerard looks down at his coffee when they start to talk, and then forces himself to look around the shop at the other customers. He keeps straining to listen, no matter how often he realizes that he can't hear them over the hubbub, and finally he gets up and finds a paper that someone's left behind so that he can distract himself with the crossword.

He lets himself look up once, when he hears Frank laugh. Frank's gesturing, big swooping gestures, coming perilously close to knocking over his coffee, and his hair is standing up. What a fucking loser. Gerard smiles goofily at his coffee and crossword, hunching over them so he won't be tempted to look again.

A couple of minutes later, someone's hand closes on his shoulder. Gerard looks up. "We're going to take a walk," Brian says. Frank is behind him, an unlit cigarette in his mouth, jittering in place. Gerard just nods.

Brian stops to get a coffee to go. The three of them light up once they get outside the coffee shop door, passing around Frank's lighter. Brian leads the way, heading down the street; as soon as his back is turned, Frank transfers his cigarette and grabs for Gerard's free hand. Their palms are sweating together, even just during the short walk, but it's comforting to feel Frank's hand in his.

When Brian looks back, stopping at the entrance to a little schoolyard park, he snorts and shakes his head. "All right, girls," he says, "Frank, can you go play real quick?" Frank lets go of Gerard's hand and races for the playground, taking a flying leap and landing belly-first on a swing. Brian snorts again, and Gerard shrugs. They sit down at the edge of the park, squatting on a curb.

"So you're in love," Brian starts. "With that guy?"

Gerard startles hard, nearly putting out his cigarette on his own knee. He doesn't say anything, though. He can't even look at Brian, so Gerard just nods, looking at Frank swinging back and forth with his arms stretched out in front of him.

"It's okay," Brian continues. "But I don't like that he drinks." Gerard nods again. He can't bring anything like words up. "You're over a year now," Brian tells him, "You're past the helpless rage stage of getting sober, and you're doing okay in school, but princess--" He sighs and takes a few drags on his cigarette, then flicks the butt away.

Gerard watches Frank fall off of the swing, landing on one of his shoulders and getting his foot caught in the chain. Frank laughs, loud and clear in the still, slightly wintry air. He untangles himself, scrambles up, and heads for the jungle gym.

"I wish you would start with a plant like any sensible drunk," Brian finishes.

"I was going to get a hamster," Gerard says regretfully.

"You fucking got one," Brian says, "Jesus, I couldn't keep up with that." Frank has clambered up on top of the jungle gym and is doing some weird dance, shaking his skinny ass and waving his hands around. "You know he's maybe twenty, right?" Brian says.

"Yeah," Gerard admits, and picks at the leg of his jeans. "And I really don't care. About any of the reasons why I should care."

"Right." Brian leans back to get his pack of cigarettes out of his pocket. "That could be fantastic or really shitty."

"Yup," Gerard says. "Give me one of your Reds."

Brian holds one out. "Don't quote me on this," he says, and gives Gerard his lighter. "But I think it's going to be fantastic."

Gerard chokes on his first inhale, and has to take the cigarette out of his mouth to catch his breath. "Really," he says.

"Really," Brian repeats, not looking at him. "Probably not forever, but it'll be good for both of you." He takes a deep drag on his cigarette and lets it out. "Make sure you nail his feet to the fucking floor early, though."

Gerard nods. "I'd thought of that."

"I figured." Brian sighs after another drag. He says, "You should ask him about his band."

"Was that what you guys were talking about?" Gerard asks, waving his hands in an imitation of Frank, but Brian shakes his head.

"I'm not telling you that," Brian tells him. "But I am telling you that you should ask him about himself more often."

"I ask him stuff," Gerard says, stung.

Brian shrugs. "I'm just saying, sometimes people who're sick are a little self-centered." He cuts his eyes towards Gerard. "I didn't say you don't have a right to be that way. It's just that if you want to hang on to him, you're going to have to make an effort."

Gerard looks away, looks at Frank sliding around on the jungle gym. He says, "This is why I hate talking to you."

"You're my fucking cross to bear, you know that?" Brian asks, smirking. After a beat, he says, more seriously, "Just because you have a boyfriend doesn't mean you're off the hook for the other thing, either."

"What?" Gerard blinks and coughs. "Off the hook for what?"

"You still have to make some other friends," Brian clarifies. Gerard rolls his eyes. Brian smirks and says, "Friends you didn't meet through Mikey or Frank, even."

"I had coffee with Maja," Gerard says, and takes a drag. "Classmate," he explains on the exhale.

Brian considers that, pressing his lips together, then nods. "That's a start," he says.

"Anything else?" Gerard asks. He tries to make it come off light and unconcerned, but Brian squeezes his shoulder and shakes his head, so he probably wasn't very successful.

They sit in companionable silence, smoking and watching Frank play. Frank flips upside down on the jungle gym, and coins rain out of his pockets. Gerard and Brian exchange a quick grin with each other. When Gerard cuts his eyes back to Frank, Frank waves, and Gerard lifts his hand in response.

"This is going to sound dumb," Gerard says abruptly. Brian sucks on his cigarette, his lips pursing, and nods for Gerard to go on before he exhales. "It's probably Disney's fault, but I thought-- well, I thought that I would meet a girl. And I thought that when I met someone, just meeting them would fix me." Gerard takes a last drag and drops the butt, grinding it out under his heel.

When he looks over, Brian's stubbing his out on the toe of his boot; Gerard offers him one of his, after he digs out his own pack, but Brian waves him off. Gerard lights up and exhales. "I know he won't, is the thing. I mean. He won't. And I was kind of sad, I think, when I realized that he wouldn't, maybe. But now it's kind of nice, that he's just, y'know, my boyfriend."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," Gerard says, believing it now more that he's said it.

"Shit, princess," Brian says. "I don't know what to tell you." He's grinning, the sharp and nasty grin he saves just for when Gerard does something right. He bumps his knee up against Gerard's, and Gerard bumps him back.

"Fuck off, dick," Gerard says, and takes an operatic drag.

"Hey, Frank!" Brian shouts, and Frank slides down off of the jungle gym and runs over. "You can have this shitsmear back," Brian says, "I decided I don't want him." Frank offers his hand and helps Brian up. They exchange manly hugs, complete with backslaps.

"You're the butch one, aren't you?" Gerard asks. Frank surveys him head to toe, then shakes his head.

"It's all a pose, darling," he lisps, and Brian actually laughs out loud.

Gerard hugs Brian goodbye, clinging tightly around his neck, and kisses him on the cheek. Brian makes a point of kissing him on the cheek, too, which is part of why Gerard likes Brian so much. "Ask him about his band, princess," Brian says, softly, right in his ear. Gerard nods, bumping his chin against Brian's shoulder. Brian lets him go. "Talk to me soon," Brian says.

"I will," Gerard promises. "And I'll take care of the hamster." Brian's still snickering as they walk away.

They hold hands on the way back, Gerard smoking slightly awkwardly with his left hand. About a block from his apartment, Frank tucks their joined hands into the front pocket of his sweatshirt. Gerard looks over at him, and he says, "Hands were cold."

"We're as bad as the heteros," Gerard tells him. "Should I start calling you Poopsie?"

"If you do, I'll start calling you Sneezy," Frank promises. He just giggles when Gerard grinds his knuckles back against Frank's stomach.

"Fucker," Gerard says, without much heat. "So," he says, trying for casual and failing, "What did Brian say about me?" Frank blows smoke in his face. Gerard bats at it irritably, squinting. "Don't be a jerk, I'm just curious."

"He didn't say much, really," Frank says, "Said he loved you, worried about you." Gerard ducks his head, embarrassed. "He mostly asked about me, actually. How I thought dating was going, why I live in New York, what kind of music my band does. He said he'd come to one of our shows, actually." Gerard looks over when Frank falls silent. Frank is blushing.

Gerard's surprised by the wave of jealousy that washes over him. This is what Brian was talking about, he realizes. "I can come to a show," he says recklessly. "I want to come to a show."

"They're in shitholes," Frank says. "Bars, even. And they're kind of crowded sometimes."

"So?" Gerard flicks away his cigarette. "I can handle it if I know to expect it."

The blush is deeper, now, and Frank is squeezing Gerard's hand a little tighter. Gerard shouldn't feel as smug as he does. "We're not that good," Frank mutters, glancing up at Gerard. "I mean, we're better than anyone else on the punk scene right now," he says with a laugh, "But we're not that good yet."

"I'm not that good an artist," Gerard offers, and laughs when Frank shoots him a murderous glare. "You're not allowed to say you're not good if I'm not," he tells Frank. He finally has let go of Frank's hand so that he can dig for his keys. "You're coming up, right?"

"Yeah," Frank says. "And okay. Fine. We're decent for how long we've been together."

"What do you do in the band?" Gerard asks, and gives himself a mental high five.

"I sing. Sort of. Yell melodically? And I play lead guitar."

"The calluses," Gerard says, "That makes sense." Frank doesn't say anything else at first. Gerard looks back at him when they reach the first landing. "C'mon, tell me about your band."

Once he gets Frank started, Frank actually chatters, telling him all about the people he plays with and their personalities. Gerard asks him about the shows that they've done, and finds out that they've actually gone on tour, and they've talked to someone about doing a CD. Frank actually got taken out to dinner by a record company guy.

Gerard gapes at Frank when he says that, and Frank laughs. "He took me to a place that had, like, no vegan options," he tells Gerard. "I ate four special order side dishes and drank a lot of water."

"But that's like, that's a step," Gerard says, hearing the wonder in his own voice. "That's like getting an invite to a gallery or something. Holy shit!" Frank ducks his head down and grins at his shoes when Gerard says that. Gerard makes a mental note to get Brian some flowers, cigarettes, a hooker, something that will show his vast appreciation. "When's your next show?"

Frank makes a face. "It's next week. Are you sure you want to come?" Gerard nods. Frank hesitates, and then says, "Okay, I'll let you know when we've got a time."

Gerard grins. "Now make me a sandwich," he says. "I bought fake cheese."

Frank snorts. "Demanding bitch," he says.

"Well, I can't have any milk with my sandwich--" Gerard starts, and then remembers that he's the one who poured out the milk he did have. "I mean Tang," he tries. Frank shakes his head. "I meant Tang!"

"You suck at everything," Frank tells Gerard. "Where's your frying pan?"

Once he's gotten Frank set up with a frying pan and some Pam, Gerard picks up the phone. "Do you mind if I talk while you're cooking?"

"I see how it is," Frank teases, "you've got me barefoot and in the kitchen, now you're going and taking me for granted."

"You've got sneakers on," Gerard points out, just to see Frank roll his eyes. "Okay, I'm calling my brother."

Gerard barely has any time to prepare himself; Mikey picks up on the third ring. "Wow, someone's jumping on the phone," Gerard says, "Should I call back later?"

"Nah," Mikey says. "They can leave a message."

"Someone from school?"

Mikey coughs. "I guess. Yeah." They sit in silence together. Gerard picks at the edge of the counter. "So," Mikey says. "What's up?"

"Nothing," Gerard says, and sighs. "How was school?"

"Fine," Mikey says, but now he sounds suspicious. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," Gerard says. He drums his fingers on the counter top and finally admits, "I think I might be a little self-centered, sometimes."

"No," Mikey says, his voice a dead monotone. "How could you possibly think that."

"Don't be a dick, I just realized," Gerard whines. Mikey laughs, and next to him Frank sniggers. Gerard rolls his eyes at both of them and folds down to sit on the floor. "It's hard to start something like this, y'know." He reaches over and puts his hand around Frank's ankle, absentmindedly, rubbing his thumb over the curve of his ankle bone, along the top of his sock.

"One day at a time," Mikey says.

Gerard hums his agreement. "So tell me about school already," he pushes.

Mikey is silent for a long, awful minute. Gerard chews on his lip.

"I hate school," Mikey says, finally. "Ask me about records."

"Fine," Gerard huffs. "What records did you buy yesterday?"

Mikey coughs again, an embarrassed sound. "I missed homeroom yesterday," he says, his voice rising at the end like a question. Frank flips a sandwich over, and the bread sizzles. "Because I saw this yard sale? And I'm so glad I did, because they sold me a box of records for two dollars."

"And they were good records?"

"No," Mikey says, practically bubbling. "Mostly Captain and Tenille, Sedaka, that stuff. But one thrashed old copy of _Fistful of Metal_."

"Holy shit!" Gerard says, and laughs. "Anthrax vinyl for under a dollar," he tells Frank, and Frank whoops.

Mikey burbles on about records, and Frank starts humming a Sinatra tune while he's making his own sandwich.

Gerard leans back, a smile on his face, and listens.


End file.
